Nothing to Lose
by teacandles
Summary: How long does it take to push a person over the edge? Just how much can someone bear before they snap?
1. Chapter 1

Author's notes: So, I shouldn't be starting a new story (and what promises to be a longish one at that) because I've already got three or four unfinished ones floating around, but this is something I've had in my head for a while that I've wanted to get down. It was inspired by a talk about bullying and Blaine's shoddy advice I had on the prompt for another story I did. This should span from before the events of season one to somewhere in season two. Also, I really have no idea which category this belongs in, so guessing it is!

* * *

Kurt had never felt more miserable in his entire life. Heavy drops of rain hit the cold glass windows of the bus, leaving behind long streaks of water snaking down toward his folded arms, and Kurt huddled further into himself to ward off the chill. His coat was useless now, the sleeves damp and slightly sticky. He sighed and rested his head against the window, no longer caring about the moisture messing up his hair. His skull thudded dully against the glass with every bump and shudder of the bus. He sighed again. These vehicles were older than dirt and poorly-designed to boot. Thankfully his hair was still damp from earlier so he barely felt the tiny drops of cold water flying in through the gap of the window in front of him.

Stupid fucking school. He couldn't wait to get out of here and leave Lima behind in his rearview mirror.

His eyes were burning but he would not cry. He refused to give them that. Things had gotten this bad before. He just needed to suck it up, deal with it. Things like this happened to kids everyday throughout the world—hell, it was practically a staple in those cheesy teen movies from the eighties.

It was just a little bullying. Nothing special. He'd been dealing with this since forever, and these were the last four years they had to torment him. Why the heck did he think it would stop now? Everyone had always told him that high school was going to be brutal.

It was okay. He just needed to get himself home, and then things would be fine. He could shower and then things would be okay.

The bus turned down the familiar streets of his neighborhood and screeched to a halt, hissing loudly as the air was released from its breaks. His stop. He hurriedly grabbed his bag and bolted from the bus, sweeping down its wet steps to the sidewalk, praying none of the other kids decided to take things up a notch and follow him home. He never wanted _that_ to happen again.

He circled the cul-de-sac, keeping a close eye on his surroundings as he went. He didn't expect anyone to bother following him in this kind of weather, but he could never be too careful. The wind was picking up now, and the drops of rain were biting into his cheeks, stinging painfully as he walked. That horrible burn behind his eyes was getting worse and his face was too hot. He was crying. He had to be. At least the rain hid it pretty well.

It took him a good ten minutes, but after a good solid loop, he made a beeline for his house. No one was behind him. One of life's little miracles, that.

He fumbled a bit with his keys, the cold of the metal biting into his fingers once he pulled them from his pocket. He needed to calm down. He'd be inside soon. Then he could call his dad and everything would be okay. The lock clicked into place and he burst into the house, dripping onto the smooth hardwood floor. Damn. Something else he'd have to clean up before his dad made it home.

His satchel dropped to the floor with a sad squelching sound. Thank god he'd asked his dad to buy him extra notebooks for the year. He would hate to have to explain to him that crusty blue paper wasn't exactly ideal for assignments. He divested himself of his shoes and left them sitting on the mat to dry before peeling off his socks. He really didn't want to have to clean any more than he had to, and leaving behind wet, dirty footprints from his socks was not something he looked forward to, thank you very much.

The downstairs bathroom was close; he really didn't have all that far to go, and there were big fluffy towels in there that Kurt himself had hung. He could get in a quick shower before calling his dad to let him know that he'd made it home. If his dad wondered why he was calling a half hour after he should, he could always lie and say the bus was running late. The weather was bad enough. It was believable.

He stepped into the bathroom and got a quick look at himself as he flicked on the light. Well, so much for this jacket. He really should have thought it through before deciding that white was a good idea for the first day of school. His bangs were plastered to his forehead. At least the rain had gotten rid of most of the blue dye.

The water warmed quickly once he turned the tap, and he hastily divested himself of his clothing. He'd never thought a shower could feel so _good,_ and he sank down to a crouch as exhaustion overwhelmed him. He couldn't stop the tears now.

Stupid fucking high school. He'd thought that maybe his tormentors had grown up over the summer, that maybe he could finally, _finally_ fit in somewhere and not have to eat his lunch in the nurse's office anymore. He thought he'd finally escaped his goddamn _label_, but no, no, no, no. They just had to get even more creative. If anything, the upperclassmen were worse than his old classmates. Who the hell throws a slushie at someone?

And the teachers. God, they were no better. Sure, he was just a freshman, and yeah, he kind of attracted bullies like a magnet, but they could have at least said something. Not doing anything just made it okay, right? He curled up further into himself and tried to calm the horrible, wracking sobs that had overtaken him. _Breathe, Kurt. Just breathe. Everything's going to be okay. Just get a hold on yourself and breathe._

No, it wouldn't matter if he got any teachers involved. They'd probably just tell him to try harder to fit in. He stuck out too much, was too threatening to the Neanderthals who ruled the school. Well fuck them. Kurt couldn't change that much if he tried. Worse were the ones who coddled him and tried to tell him to keep his head up, that things would get better. Yeah, well when would they get better? When he was beaten near to death in college? When he was found shot dead in his house at thirty-three? When he finally told his dad that he was gay and got kicked out of the house because Hummels didn't need any fags around? When?

Speaking of his dad, he needed to get out of the shower and call the man. God, his dad must be frantic by now if he was keeping an eye on the clock. Kurt turned off the water and quickly rubbed himself down with one of the soft towels hanging on the wall, not really caring if he was being abrasive to his skin. He could take care of it later.

Kurt wrapped himself up in the towel and made his way to the kitchen, modesty be damned. He glanced at the tiny green numbers above the stove. Four o'clock. Okay. He wasn't too late. He picked up the phone from its cradle and dialed the garage. His dad should still be there.

One ring.

Two.

Thr—"Hummel Tire and Lube. This is Burt."

"Hi, dad."

"Kurt, Jesus. Did you make it home okay? It's pouring out there, and I was starting to get worried. You do know what time it is, don't you?" His voice was a little breathy; he'd been worried. Kurt hated it when his dad worried about him.

Kurt curled against the wall and tucked the towel tighter around his body. He could feel little lines of water that he'd missed running down his back, his legs, to drip onto the floor. Damn. One more thing to take care of. "Yeah, dad. I'm sorry about calling late. The buses were running a bit behind this afternoon," he lied smoothly. His dad had enough to worry about. He didn't need to know that the bullying had gotten worse.

"Well, I'm coming home a bit late today. The weather makes people antsy and we've had the truck running around all day. You gonna make dinner tonight, or do you want me to pick something up on my way home?"

"Could you get something? I don't know that I'm in any shape to cook anything right now," he sighed into the phone.

"Everything okay there, bud?"

"Yeah, dad. Everything…everything's fine. Just a long day is all. High school is a bit different than what I was expecting. Um, I'll just—I'll see you when you get home, okay?"

"Okay. You sure you're all right? I can shove this off on Jerry if you need me to come home early."

"No, dad. I'll be fine. It's just schoolwork and stuff."

"You sure?"

"Yeah, dad. Don't be such a worry wart." He chuckled lightly into the phone, and hoped that his dad didn't pick up on the sadness in his voice. "You drive safe on your way home, okay?"

"You got it, bud. Wouldn't want to have to fix my own car along with all the others we've got piling up around here."

"No, we wouldn't. Love you, dad."

"Love you too. I'll see you when I get home."

Kurt stood there in the kitchen for a while after his dad hung up, just holding the phone in his hand. Thunder rumbled outside and rain pelted the windows with renewed fervor. He never thought this was going to be so hard. It was times like this where he really wanted his mom back. She'd know what to do. He loved his dad, he really did, but the man wasn't exactly easy to talk to. He knew about the bullying, how could he not? It had been going on now for so damn long now it was practically routine. These high school boys had just upped the ante was all.

He placed the phone back into its cradle and hiked the towel up higher on his chest. He needed to change, needed to get himself together, get everything cleaned up. He could deal with this. He was strong. No one pushes around a Hummel.

* * *

The weight of it hit him sometime after fifth period. In retrospect, he should have expected it, but _damn_ did it hurt. Just because they'd never caught the guys who did it in the first place didn't mean that they hadn't followed him to William McKinley.

It was exactly the same as last year. The same word, the same black ink, the same ugly handwriting.

Fag.

He wasn't sure why it was bothering him so much right now. The janitors had tried to clean it off his last locker to no avail. It never fully went away, and the letters would just come back the next week.

Fag.

**Fag.**

_**Fag.**_

It was probably the same jerk as last year, taunting him. He'd almost burst into tears when he saw the marker stretching across the smooth metal of his locker.

He'd thought he was done with this. Sure, the first couple of weeks had been bad, but this was high school and he was a freshman outcast. He should have expected this kind of crap, right? He'd seen some gothic Asian chick get shoved around yesterday. This was life, and he was at the low end of the social spectrum. This was how things worked.

He just thought that maybe all the crap would taper off, that they would let up on him after a while and focus their attentions on some other freak, but his hopes were dashed as soon as he saw those three awful letters decorating his locker. He ran his fingers over the big, block letters. Of course he'd been singled-out. He wasn't ever going to escape this, was he?

He'd adapted okay. The slushies were a regular thing apparently. A William McKinley special. The dumpster tosses were reserved for pretty much him and him alone, but it was better than the port-a-potty treatment they gave the wheelchair kid and that creepy guy with the really large fro. Kurt would take the garbage over the outdoor toilets anytime, thanks. The dumpster smell could be covered up well enough with a quick change of clothes and enough hair spray, now permanent staples in the haven that had once been his locker. Of course they'd found it and defaced it. What the hell else should he have expected, and he supposed it was better than someone breaking into the thing.

Didn't mean it didn't sting like hell.

And he missed the bus that afternoon because of a stupid art project. He called his dad from the school and let him know that he'd be home a little late. It was fine. Their house wasn't that far. The weather hadn't completely turned yet, and Kurt could use the exercise. He could make it. He'd call if he changed his mind.

He hadn't expected to get cornered just outside the school by Puckerman and his cronies, the new rising jocks at the school. He recognized a few of their faces from his morning dumpster toss. There were Karofsky and Azimio, tall and looming and each one well on their way to becoming an obesity statistic. Puckerman, of course, with his stupid leering face and stupid, ugly mohawk that he thought made him look cool. And Finn. Finn Hudson. He was usually the nicest of the bunch. A jerk for sure, but a cute one.

They had caught him off-guard, and it was late enough after school that most of the teachers had either gone home or were busy with meetings and other assorted after school commitments.

Oh god, they had balloons in their hands. He'd seen them drive by and nail that poor Rachel girl with paint last week. This did not bode well for him. His fingers tightened on the strap of his bag.

"'Sup, Hummel?"

He shrunk back against the brick wall behind him. "What do you want, Puckerman?"

"Oh, look, the little fairy can speak. That's cute, isn't it, guys?" Azimio. Oh god, this was going to be bad, wasn't it? He glanced around and saw that each one of them had at least a balloon in each hand. They were opaque, so he couldn't see what was inside them, but he could guess. Goodbye, Ralph Lauren sweater. You were nice while you lasted.

"Can you guys just get this over with? I know the upperclassmen want you to pick on the freaks and stuff to get in their good graces, but I really need to get home."

"Shut up, Fancy. No one cares what you want." Karofsky moved toward him menacingly, but Kurt stood his ground. His day had been shitty enough already. Now he had to deal with this assholes boosting up their egos by picking on the gay kid. Great. Hopefully this whole thing would be done soon and he could get home.

Puckerman held him back, smirking as the wheels in his head began turning. This wasn't looking good. "No, he's got a point. Let's give him a proper welcome."

Kurt braced himself, but he was completely unprepared for the warm liquid that hit him. He'd fully expected the same paint treatment, and this was far thinner and warmer than any paint he'd ever encountered. That's when the smell hit him. Oh god, that was—

A balloon exploded in his face, leaving him gasping.

"Oh ho! Nice shot, Hudson!" There were high fives and jeers and it took all Kurt had to not fall to the sidewalk. Oh god, that was urine, wasn't it? Oh god, it was. It was everywhere—in his hair, soaking into his clothes, dripping into his nose and mouth. Oh god, oh god, oh god. He could hear the heavy footsteps of the retreating jocks and he crumpled to his knees. This wasn't happening. This couldn't be happening. These things only happened in movies.

This couldn't be happening to him.

* * *

Kurt couldn't tell you how he got home, but he somehow managed to trudge in through the door and bolt inside the bathroom. Oh god, how the hell had he let things get this bad? He hopped into the shower without bothering to strip down and turned the water on full blast. It was freezing, but he barely felt the cold. What the _hell_. Whose idea was it to fill fucking balloons with their own goddamn piss and toss them at him? What the hell had he ever done to them?

The tears were coming in earnest now as he scrubbed the cold water over his clothes. Oh god. He was going to be smelling that for weeks.

He'd never been more grateful to have his dad out of the house than right now. At least now there was no one around to bear witness to Kurt's shame.

He slipped out of his sopping clothes, depositing them on the bathroom floor, and finished washing himself. He scrubbed and scrubbed at his skin until it was red and raw and irritated. Oh god, he was going to be smelling their fucking piss for _weeks._ It wasn't going away.

Kurt dried himself off as quickly as possible and grabbed his pile of dripping clothing, clutching it to his chest to keep from dropping it to the carpet as he bolted to the laundry room. Thankfully, he'd been on top of the laundry this week, and the washing machine was empty. He shoved the entire pile into the thing, not bothering to read if they needed to be dry-cleaned or not. They were ruined anyway, so what did it matter?

He started the cycle and nearly collapsed to the floor. He wanted his dad to come home and wrap him up in a hug and never let him go. He wanted his mom. He wanted to curl up in a ball and just disappear. He couldn't do this anymore. He wasn't fucking strong enough. He wanted his mom.

Kurt tried to calm himself down. Clothes. There were clothes in here. He'd left a few t-shirts and things in here. They were folded on the dryer. He slowly pulled himself to his feet, not really caring as his towel slipped down his torso to land in a heap on the floor. He'd get it later.

Yes. Sleepwear. Simple and off-brand, but comfortable. He needed comfort right now. The fabric was soft and smelled so clean as he pulled it over his head that he almost burst into tears again. His mom. He really needed his mom right now.

Kurt slipped out of the laundry room and made his way toward the stairs. His dad didn't know about this, couldn't know. He couldn't know that his son _needed _this. Kurt cautiously opened the door to the master bedroom and crept inside.

There. On the far end of the wall. His mother's dresser. Just after her funeral, he'd accidentally spilt some of her perfume on the thing and now the wood forever smelled like her. Sometimes, it helped just to lay on the floor beside it and breathe in what little scent still lingered. It was faint, but it was _her_ and really that was enough. It was as much as Kurt was going to get.

He padded over to the far side of the room, but something caught his eye and stopped him. His dad had a bookcase. It was old and covered with dust because the man hardly used it. Kurt wasn't technically allowed in this room, so he couldn't clean it as well as he liked. He'd never really bothered with the bookcase.

But there was something sitting there, just beside his dad's nightstand that gave him pause, and he walked over to it, his mission completely forgotten.

It was a knife. One of those ones that folded in on itself for ease in carrying. It was old and covered in a fine layer of dust, grey powder lodged in between the little bumps and nubs that textured the plastic of the handle. Probably given to his dad by his grandfather or something. Like an old hunting knife. Kurt carefully picked it up and turned it over in his hand. He'd never held anything quite like it before.

There were little grooves on the metal edges that stuck out from the side. _For ease in releasing the blade_, he thought as he gripped the metal between his thumb and forefinger. It took a little effort, but the blade eventually came free. It was smooth and clean at the top, serrated with tiny jagged teeth at the bottom. It was so different from the ones downstairs in the kitchen that he was used to. Kurt ran his thumb along the edge of it to test it and flinched when he sliced into his thumb. He quickly popped the appendage into his mouth to quell any bleeding and stared hard at the weapon in his hand. Still sharp.

Suddenly, he heard the tell-tale clicking of the lock on the front door. Oh god, his dad. He couldn't get caught up here.

He bolted from the room, knife still in his hand and flew down the stairs to the basement, just as the front door swung open. His heart was racing. What was he going to do about the knife? _Think, Kurt. Think._ He hastily shoved it into the drawer of his vanity, and prayed his dad didn't notice it was missing. It wasn't like he cleaned the bookcase on a regular basis. It was just one knife.

He startled when his dad's voice came wafting down the stairs into his room. "Kurt? You down there?"

"Yeah, dad." His heart was still pounding in his chest. There were footsteps approaching. Just keep calm. He could do this.

"What are you hiding out down here for? Got a lot of homework or something?" he asked as he made his way down the stairs, but he stopped cold when he saw his son. "Kurt, why are you in your pajamas?"

"Just wanted to put on something comfortable," he replied, trying not to appear nervous. "Nothing special."

"Okay…um, are you up for helping me make dinner? I brought home groceries; it's why I was running a bit late. I even managed to get some of those fancy ingredients you asked for last time."

"Okay, dad. Sure. Let's just go upstairs." He tried to keep himself calm. Don't act suspicious. Everything is okay.

"You sure you're all right? You seem kind of nervous. Kids aren't picking on you at school again, are they?"

"No. It's fine."

The look on his dad's face told Kurt he wasn't buying it. "'Cause I can talk to the school—"

"No! No, dad. It's fine. Look, I'm just kind of stressed about some tests I've got coming up. Nothing more. It's fine."

"You'd tell me if anything was going on."

It wasn't really a question, but it sure as hell felt like one. "Yes, dad. I'd tell you if anything was going on. I promise."

His dad seemed satisfied with that response and let the subject drop. "Okay then," he said, with a light slap to Kurt's shoulder. "Let's go make some dinner, shall we?"


	2. Chapter 2

Tension was thick in the air as the clock ticked down the seconds until three o'clock. Even the teachers seemed to be on the edge of their seats. This was it. The last day before Spring Break. And Kurt couldn't be happier to leave the halls of McKinley.

The bell signaling the end of the day sounded more like a choir to his ears than the tinny clang it was, and Kurt bolted from his seat, desperate to be the first one out the door. He needed to get to his locker and grab his things as fast as he possibly could. His dad was picking him up from the front lot this afternoon, and they were going to spend the rest of the day together, working on cars at the garage and talking about nothing in particular. Guy stuff. Kurt loved times like that, when he could just hang out with his dad. It was the only time he really felt connected to the man, like he was a Hummel and not just the queer kid with the fancy scarves.

He bounced through the halls against the flow of traffic, books clutched tight to his chest, desperate to get to his locker. He hated the grease and the coveralls he had to wear when they worked on the cars, but he loved the feel of an engine under his hands. He loved putting cars back together from their wreckage and listening to them purr.

He was so lost in his thoughts of engines and motors and grease-slicked parts that he didn't even feel his shoulder slamming into the locker until the loud smacking sound hit his ears. He crumpled to the ground in shock before the pain actually hit and his books fell all around his feet, flying open to reveal their white, fluttering pages, and crashing to the ground like birds hit by stones.

Students kept walking by, their shoes kicking up his assignments and leaving dusty footprints behind on his things. Somewhere in the back of his mind, he heard the tearing of paper, and he closed his eyes. Those were the school's books, not his, and now he'd have to pay for repairs or god forbid, replacements. There was a roaring void in his mind that consumed him. _Just distance yourself from it, Kurt. You're not really here. This isn't really happening._

The laughter really wasn't helping, though.

"Look, guys. The fairy tripped himself. I thought they were supposed to be light on their feet."

_Just let it go, Kurt. Water off a duck's back. These numbskulls will work for you someday, remember that._

There was more tearing paper, but Kurt refused to open his eyes. He didn't want to see, he didn't want to know. He'd just pick up the pieces when they were done. He'd just tell his dad that his teacher kept him late for an extra credit project or something, and pay for the books from his allowance and maybe some extra hours at the garage. He'd just tell his dad that he was saving up for a new jacket or something that would only be on the shelves for a short amount of time or something along those lines; he'd come up with something believable.

_Keep it cool. They won't hurt you while all these other people are around._

"Dude, what the hell is that?"

"Jesus, look at this. It's like a freakin' pride parade in here. With hearts and rainbows and everything."

That had to be his English notes. The class was far too easy, so Kurt spent most of his time doodling in the margins of his notebook in highlighter and various colored pens. They weren't anything good; he was far from an artist, but it wasn't full of hearts and flowers like some prepubescent girl either. They were just sketches. Of buildings and people from his memory. Nothing special. Just something to pass the time.

And, contrary to their constant jabs and insults, Kurt was _not_ gay. He was just a little more in touch with his feminine side, thank you very much.

So he liked fashion and things, big deal. He also liked cars. Loved them, in fact. That was a manly thing, right? And girls were all right. They were easy to talk to, at the very least. He just hadn't found one yet that fit his ideal. She'd be tall and fit, with dark hair and little dimples in his, no, _her _cheeks when she smiled.

Breasts really weren't his thing, but that just meant his was a leg man or something else like that. Plus, girls didn't like short guys, right? Kurt was definitely short. And certainly not muscular like Noah Puckerman or full of boyish charm like Finn Hudson. It wasn't exactly like Kurt was the most desirable guy in school.

Sure, he'd thought about a few guys like, well, like _that_, but that didn't make him gay. Everybody had thoughts like that every now and again, according to all the books he could find and a few in-depth searches on the internet. It was perfectly natural to have those kinds of thoughts, and it didn't make him queer.

Besides, he couldn't be gay. It would just _kill_ his dad. Kurt couldn't possibly do that to him, not with all the crap he already had to deal with. It was the exact same reason he hadn't told the man about the escalating torment at school. It would worry him too much, and it wasn't like there was anything anyone could do. It was just another thing to stress about, and Kurt didn't want to be a burden. He loved his dad too much for that.

The hallway was emptying out, judging from the lessening number of shadows passing in front of his eyes and the quieting of the white noise of teenage chatter and footsteps against the tiles. Laughter still echoed in his ears, and he couldn't tell if the bullies were still hanging around to taunt him or if he was imagining things. Someone was definitely shuffling paper around though, and he cautiously opened an eye, bracing himself for Puckerman or Karofsky to be standing there in front of him, shoving his colorful doodles in his face.

It wasn't.

Crouched on the ground a few feet away, picking up his discarded papers was a large black girl. He recognized her from his French class. She sat in front of him. Her name was Michigan or something similar. Something starting with an 'M,' he knew that much. He'd never spoken to her before, so he couldn't be sure what her name was without asking; she usually hung around the other black kids at school, completely out of his social circle.

He edged himself away from the wall and quickly gathered the things scattered about his feet into his bag, not really caring about order at this point. His dad was probably waiting for him outside right now, and the papers could always be rearranged later. He didn't really have time to waste. The girl hadn't stopped picking things up, though, and it made him rather uncomfortable to watch her scrabble around on the floor after his things.

"You don't have to do that, you know," he mumbled quietly to her, not bothering to look up from the now torn pages of his Biology textbook.

"I know," she replied.

That made him pause, and he fell back on his haunches, fixing her with a hard stare. "Then why are you still here? I'm sure you have better things to do."

She looked up and he retreated a bit at her glare. "Look, do you want me to help you or not?"

He averted his eyes and didn't say anything as he picked up a few pens that had rolled out of his bag when he hit the ground. He didn't need another enemy to add to his rather extensive list.

He saw her shake her head out of the corner of his eye. "No wonder you don't have any friends."

"What?"

She scooted over to him and handed him a ruffled stack of papers; notes and things that had been torn out of his binder, from the looks of it. "You're kind of a jerk, you know that? It's no wonder people don't like you." Her face was a mask of disapproval, and Kurt felt himself bristling. Who the hell was she to tell him how to act? She didn't have any idea what it was like for him, what these assholes did to him day after day.

He scowled and snatched the papers from her, a bit more violently than he'd originally intended. "And I'm sure you have tons of people falling over to be your friend," he spat.

"No, but I'm also not an ass to someone trying to do me a favor."

He closed his eyes and sighed as he grabbed the last book from the ground. She was right. He was being a jerk to her when she was helping him out. "Look, I'm sorry. I don't mean to be rude. I just—it's March, and I don't think anyone's been nice to me at this school until now."

She stayed there for a moment, completely still, as though pondering something, before pushing herself to her feet. Kurt followed her example, and stood there awkwardly, silent and full of shame. He pulled his ruined books close to his body. "Thanks," he murmured softly. "For the help, I mean. I really appreciate it."

She smiled at him. _She has a really nice smile_, Kurt thought before her hand was suddenly looped around his arm. "Which way?"

"What?" He was still in shock over the unexpected contact.

"Which way?" she repeated. "I'm sorry to say that if you wanted the south entrance, the buses are probably gone by now."

"Oh. Um, no. My dad is picking me up today at the front."

"Awesome. My dad should be there too." She checked the colorful watch strapped to her wrist. "Well, in fifteen minutes, but still. I'll walk you there."

"Are you always this," he paused, searching for the right word, "forceful?"

She laughed lightly and he startled at the sound. "Honey, you have _no_ idea. Oh, I'm Mercedes, by the way. Mercedes Jones. I don't think I ever introduced myself."

He smiled. Her skin felt warm and soft in his own. He'd forgotten how it felt to have someone other than his dad touch him without hesitation or revulsion. It was nice.

"Kurt," he said. "I'm Kurt Hummel."

* * *

He only saw Mercedes sporadically, but those short moments could make his whole day worthwhile. They often passed each other notes and partnered up in French class when they were allowed. Kurt had forgotten how nice it was to actually have a friend, even if she was probably more of an acquaintance than anything.

But that didn't mean that he felt safe. Far from it. Thank god he had the tendency to actually look at his food before he put it into his mouth or he'd probably end up with a mouthful of glass or something. He wouldn't put it past anyone.

It was the second week after break. He was fully caught up in all of his homework except for History, which only required some light reading. He opened up his new book and ran his fingers over the smooth pages. Might as well enjoy the crisp newness of his book; he was paying enough for it.

He been exceedingly careful with his money, and his dad hadn't yet found out about the disaster that was his textbooks (his bag had done wonders to hide the torn mass of paper and binding), though it wouldn't be long now. The bill was going to be sent home any day now, and there was no way he could afford the amount he now owed to the school on his own. Kurt sighed and cursed his bullies. His dad was sure to ground him for this.

Goodbye allowance. Goodbye freedom.

He'd had a long, embarrassing conversation with the lady in charge of the book room the day he'd come back from break; she'd taken one look at the sorry state of his books and gone incredibly pale. Kurt had been certain that she was going to vomit all over his shoes.

The novels for his English class had been mostly unharmed, so he hadn't bothered to take those down to her for inspection, and thankfully, his Math book was salvageable, but he would have to pay for new binding and some page repairs. Nothing too big. Unfortunately, the same couldn't be said for his History and Biology texts. Those would have to be replaced. And at over a hundred dollars apiece, Kurt was going to have to ask his dad for help. Thankfully, they let him check another set in return for the mangled remains of his old books. The bill would be sent home by the end of this week, and Kurt had been diligently watching the mailbox, praying it wouldn't come.

He ground his forehead into his palm just thinking about it. This really wasn't fair, but he couldn't prove that he hadn't done the damage himself by tripping over his own stupid feet or roughhousing with the damn books while school was out, and of course any of the boys responsible would deny it if he pointed any fingers.

He shuddered and glanced around the cafeteria to make sure they hadn't moved from their spot over near the windows. No, still there. If he accused them of anything, they'd just up the ante, and things were bad enough as it was.

He sighed again and deflated, pushing the sorry excuse for mashed potatoes around his plate. He really should start bringing his own lunches. That or eat nothing that was pre-prepared. He rarely ate anything from the lunch line, and really, he was just wasting his money here.

The clock read that there was another five minutes or so before the next bell. Kurt snapped his book shut and pushed away from the table. This was stupid. He couldn't concentrate here anymore, not with his tormentors standing not thirty feet away with no walls or glass between them. Adult supervision in the cafeteria or not, he didn't trust them to leave him alone.

He gingerly placed his book inside his bag and grabbed his tray from the table. The pile of untouched food on it was depressing. He'd pack a sandwich or something tomorrow. It wasn't worth the three dollars and change for food he wasn't going to eat.

He carefully deposited the remains of his lunch into one of the trash cans, casting not-so-discrete looks over his shoulder at the gaggle of jocks in the corner. They didn't seem to notice him, but if anything that made him feel more uneasy. Perhaps they had something big planned for later—they'd left him alone for the most part today, and he wouldn't put it past them to have something set aside for after school or tomorrow just before the weekend.

He scampered out of the cafeteria as quickly as possible. He needed to get to his locker. The sooner he got that over with, the sooner he could escape to the relative safety of a classroom.

It wasn't hard to pick out his locker from the endless line of them in his hall. The faint shadow of the word 'fag' was still there. Just like last year, the word wasn't coming out without a new paint job. The school probably wouldn't bother to pay for that until a parent complained or something when their son or daughter bitched about it at home next year or the year after. Kurt sure as hell wasn't going to say anything. The word was going to come back anyway, and his dad had enough on his plate right now as it was.

Kurt could handle this. He'd handled it for years on his own. It was just a little bullying.

The lock spun easily in his fingers as he plugged in his combination. 0-32-6. Same as always. He swung open the door and quickly checked himself over in the tiny mirror he had hanging inside. Everything looked to be in place. He'd done a good job fixing himself up after his morning dumpster toss, and really, that had only messed up his hair.

He let himself crack a tiny smile. Maybe he was wrong. Maybe things would start getting better, even if only marginally. He reached back for his blue notebook. Math was next. He could sit outside the classroom until the bell rang. His fingers caught on something unfamiliar. Like a folded sheet of paper. Odd. He didn't remember putting any loose papers in his locker, folded or otherwise. He pulled it out, curious.

It was a neat little square of regular printer paper. His heart skipped a beat. He never used printer paper unless a teacher required a paper to be typed. Oh god, that meant that someone must have slipped it into his locker. He could hear his pulse pounding in his ears now as he turned it over in his hand. It was blank; no name or any indication that it was from anyone in particular. There didn't seem to be anything inside the paper either, so hopefully a razor blade or something wouldn't fall out into his hand when he opened it.

His fingers slowly picked at the edges to unfold the thing. He held it away from his body, just in case. His bullies weren't exactly the smartest bunch, but they could be creative when they wanted to.

He fell against the solid metal wall of lockers as soon he saw the crude drawings to keep himself from falling to the floor.

Instructions. The drawings and scribbled words in unfamiliar handwriting were instructions.

Detailing exactly how he should kill himself.

_Do the world a favor and get rid of another fag._

He crumbled the thing into a tiny ball and shoved it as hard as he could to the bottom of his bag as he tried to keep the tears at bay. His hands were shaking, and he couldn't tell if the bile coating the back of his throat was from fear, outrage, sorrow, or what. He really didn't care anymore. He just wanted to go home.

He hastily grabbed the rest of the books he'd need for the day; he didn't want to have to come back here. He'd never been more thankful to have a late lunch in his entire life. _You've only got two more class periods, Kurt; then you can go home and get out of this hellhole_. You can do this. _Just two more classes._

The note weighed heavily in his bag as he walked, and it felt as though everyone he passed could see it. Of course. He should have known. It wasn't anything he hadn't heard before.

_Why don't you just go off yourself?_

_Do the world a fucking favor._

_No one needs another fag._

They'd just never bothered to put it in writing before.

* * *

Kurt managed to skip out early from his last class of the day with a well-timed bathroom break. There would be hell to pay for it tomorrow, but the note was burning too hot at the back of his mind. He hadn't been able to concentrate anyway. Why bother with schoolwork when his life could very well be at risk?

He was the first onto the bus, and once again, he fervently wished that he had his driver's license. Maybe with his own car he wouldn't feel so vulnerable, so exposed.

He didn't even remember the ride home; everything was a giant blur. It was too hard to concentrate wit a threat hanging over his head. He kept glancing at the kids he could see from his seat. They were talking, laughing, carrying on like nothing was wrong. How could they just sit there and be so fucking _normal_ when he could hardly sit still without wanting to burst into tears. His stop couldn't come fast enough.

He had to try extra hard to keep from running his usual loop around the neighborhood. He took a different route than usual today, even going so far as to slip around through the apartment complexes nearby to be absolutely sure that no one was following him.

His face was cherry red and his eyes burned as he unlocked the door to his house and stepped inside. Oh god, they were getting to him. He was becoming paranoid. He couldn't keep living like this. It hurt too much.

He went through the motions, calling his dad as always, let the man know that he'd made it home safe. It didn't help that his dad had picked up on the shaky quality to his voice.

"You sure everything's okay, Kurt. You don't sound okay."

"Yeah, dad. I—actually, there's something I need to talk to you about, but I need to talk to you in person."

"Is someone picking on you again? 'Cause I can—"

"No, dad. It's fine. Nothing I can't handle. I just…there was an accident. With some of my books. And I need to talk to you about it when you get home."

Kurt swore he could hear his dad's expression darkening. "Kurt…"

"It's nothing big. I'll talk to you about it when you get home. I'll see you later, all right? Don't worry about dinner. I'll come up with something for tonight, okay? I'll talk to you later." He knew his dad wanted to continue the conversation. He had to know that Kurt was deflecting, but the immense rush of relief that came over him when his dad didn't push the matter was worth it.

"Okay. I'll see you when I get home. But don't think that we're dropping this, Kurt."

"I know, dad."

He moved mechanically to the sanctuary of the basement. His bag hung heavily on his shoulder, like it was full of lead instead of books and paper. He dropped it to the floor with a loud thud and collapsed into the chair in front of his vanity, jamming his face into his hands.

He couldn't do this. He couldn't do this anymore. It was too fucking hard.

He knew that crying was bad for his skin and that the sobs that were coming now were going to coat his face and hands with tears and snot and god knows what else, but he couldn't hold it back anymore. It wasn't fair. What the hell had he done wrong? What was it about him that was so fucking threatening?

He bent down and shuffled through his bag until his fingers wrapped around the crumpled wad of paper at the bottom. He unfolded it and looked at the words and pictures glaring back at him in red pen.

_Do us all a favor._

_Why don't you just kill yourself?_

He looked up at his reflection. God, he was a mess. Note or not, he had to get himself together or his dad would suspect something. He always seemed to know when something was wrong even if Kurt wasn't sitting alone in the basement crying his eyes out.

_Get it together, Kurt. You can handle this. They didn't actually hurt you. You're going to be fine. Just get yourself together. Everything's going to be fine._

He smoothed out the paper as best he could. Evidence. It was evidence in case he wound up in a ditch somewhere. They'd know that it was premeditated then and not an accident.

He sucked in a deep breath and lightly slapped his cheeks. Focus. He needed to focus. First, he needed to fix himself up. It wouldn't do to look like he'd just been hit by a car when his dad came home. He opened the drawer of his vanity and froze.

The black plastic handle of the knife stared up at him, and he forgot to breathe.

The knife. He'd completely forgotten about it. He gingerly picked it up. The blade was still out; he'd never bothered to close it after he'd stolen it from his father's bookcase. The metal gleamed in the dim light.

A knife. He'd never thought of it before. He tucked the blade back into its cover and clutched the thing to his chest. A knife. A knife would keep him safe.

He unzipped the smallest pocket of his bag and tucked it inside.

Just in case.

* * *

Author's notes: Arrgh, quit messing with my format, you stupid site. Stop adding things in and taking things out. It's really getting irritating.


	3. Chapter 3

Author's notes: Not that pleased with the writing for this part, but things should be picking up plot-wise.

* * *

As much as Kurt detested dirt and grime, there was nothing quite like the feel of fresh summer grass between his toes. There were bugs and dirt and little bits of dead grass that were currently clinging to the hems of his pants and the exposed skin of his ankles, but it was well worth it. He flexed his feet one more time, silently relishing the feel of the young plants against his skin. He shifted on the edge of the wooden patio and tried to get into a more comfortable position. His tailbone was starting to ache from sitting there for so long, but he was loathe to move just yet.

The late summer sun was warm through the light fabric of his shirt, and though he knew he'd be covered in even more freckles by the end of the day than the ones dotting his face and arms now, it was worth it this one time. Besides, they'd be long gone before school started up again, and his nightly skin care routine would help to soften the effect of the little dark spots in no time.

He'd opted out of joining his dad at the shop today and had almost made his way entirely through the books he'd been given for his birthday. The first novel hadn't been anything special, but it had been a welcome distraction from his complete and utter lack of a social life, if nothing else. The second had been absolutely awful (but what else had he expected from his Aunt Mildred?), and he'd given up on it less than halfway through. It hadn't been worth his time or his sanity. The one he had open in his lap now, however, was turning out to be quite the page-turner. He'd never been much of one for mysteries before, but this one was rather well-written, fast-paced, and far more interesting than anything else he had to entertain himself with at the moment.

A soft keening beep rose up from his left and he groaned as he turned away from the book, his fingers carefully laid over his exact stopping point in the text, to see what the commotion was about. It was the alarm going off on the watch set just to his side, and he frowned as he remembered why he had set it there. The old watch was an ugly little thing, one of his dad's that he'd pilfered from his desk at the garage some time ago, but it kept the time well enough while his phone charged inside. It wasn't as though anyone knew he had it anyway—his dad hadn't even noticed it was missing.

Kurt leaned over and scraped it up from the wood into his hand, fingering the worn felt strap. Four thirty. He sighed. Right on time. He needed to get started on dinner. They'd been eating way too much take-out lately, and it was starting to show on Kurt's figure. His dad could do with a few healthy meals as well.

He stuffed the watch into his pocket and wedged his bookmark into the deep crevice between the pages of his novel to keep his place. He sighed as he inspected his progress from the thin piece of cardboard sticking out between the pages. About two-thirds of the way through—right when the action was at its heaviest. He really did have the worst timing.

He threaded his toes through the grass one last time before lifting his legs onto the hard surface of the patio. He'd been sitting for too long. His legs protested as he straightened and stretched, tilting him off to the right, so he stumbled a bit before catching himself and regaining his balance once more.

_Smooth, Kurt, _he thought as he brushed at the smooth fabric of his pants to clear them of any debris that might have collected there. _Real smooth. At least no one was around to see that._

He leaned down to pick up his book, sighing as he ran his fingers over the textured book jacket. He'd be able to finish it soon. Maybe tomorrow or during the weekend. His dad probably wouldn't mind if he took another day off, even if it was just to read some throwaway book. It was summer vacation after all, and he'd been a pretty big help around the garage since school let out. One more day wouldn't hurt.

Kurt staggered over to the sliding glass door, and made his way inside the house. His legs were incredibly stiff and still somewhat wobbly from sitting for so long, but the hours spent reading the book in his hands had been worth it. He'd have to look this author up, see if she had any other books out.

The house was quiet and empty, and Kurt felt as though he were the only person in the universe. It was terribly lonely and more than a little intimidating, but his dad would be home soon. They didn't really talk about much, not even the cars that they both worked so hard on, but his presence was comforting. They didn't really have much in common, but his dad was there, and that was what mattered in the end.

Kurt sauntered into the kitchen and laid his book down on the table. He wasn't exactly sure what to make, but then, he wasn't sure what kinds of ingredients he had to work with either. He eyed the fridge with apprehension. He should probably check and see what kind of vegetables they had. Maybe some sort of vegetarian pasta, or some fish if they had any. His dad shouldn't protest to something like that.

He made his way over to the fridge and pulled open the door. The cool air hit his body as he sifted through the various drawers and shelves. There. A package. He picked it out and carefully read the little paper label. Salmon. Purchased two days ago. Good enough. He could bake it and serve it with some salad; his dad should be fine with that.

He cradled the package in his hands and bumped the door of the fridge with his hip to close it. Now he just needed to see what kinds of spices they had left. His dad didn't understand much in the way of seasoning outside of salt and black pepper, which frustrated Kurt to no end, but the man did always try and keep the spice cabinet well-stocked for Kurt. He placed the little paper package on the counter and walked over to the spice cabinet. His bare feet barely made a sound as he moved across the cool linoleum.

He opened up the cabinet door and scowled at the rows of bottles lining the top shelves. Great. His dad had moved them again.

He huffed out a sharp breath of air and stomped over to the kitchen table, cursing his lack of height. Soon. He had to hit his growth spurt soon, and then this wouldn't be a problem. Until then he was stuck dragging chairs over from the kitchen table or the dining room to give himself the extra boost. It really didn't help that the majority of his bullies already had a few inches on him (with the exception of Finn, who had maybe a foot or more; the guy was a freakin' _giant_); perhaps that was one of the reasons they honed in on him. Kill off the sick and weak ones first, then move on to bigger prey.

Some of the bottles were old; most were more than half empty. He'd need to take stock and pester his dad about buying more later. As he was debating over the pros and cons of adding dill to the fish, the shrill warble of the phone shot through the room.

He placed the bottles down on the counter and climbed down from his perch. It was probably his dad, letting him know that he was on his way home.

Kurt walked over to the phone and glanced at the caller ID. Huh. He didn't recognize that number. Maybe it was another solicitor or relative looking for his mom. After seven years one would think that they'd get the news that she was dead. He sighed as the phone rang again. He supposed that it really didn't help that he sounded like a woman. His tormentors had reminded him enough of that while he was at school; he didn't need anyone else to call him out on it.

He picked up the receiver and connected the call, walking back over to his chair and assorted spices.

"Hummel residence."

There was nothing except a little bit of breathing coming through the speaker. He pulled the phone away from his ear and frowned at the phone. Who the hell?

"Hello? Is anyone there?"

"We're coming to get you, fag," came a deep voice that was abruptly cut off by the dial tone. Kurt froze, his breath catching in his chest.

His fingers went slack and the little bottle he was holding slipped from his hand to shatter against the kitchen floor. He carefully pulled the phone away from his ear and pressed 'end.'

Oh god. All of the terrible things from the past school year that he'd tried to shove from his mind came rushing back, and Kurt found himself going numb with fear and shock. His hands were shaking. He looked at the phone and felt his heart seize up in his chest. He couldn't place the voice—it hadn't been familiar at all. It could have been anyone. Anyone at all.

Kurt wanted to sink down into the floor and disappear. This wasn't happening. This couldn't be happening. Not to him. Not now. Things like this just didn't happen to people outside of stupid dramas on TV. He placed the phone onto the counter and stepped down from the chair. A sharp pain in his heel brought him back to reality and he hissed in frustration.

That's right. He dropped that damn spice bottle. There was glass on the floor now. He was more careful setting down his other foot, careful of the tiny smears of blood and bright flashes of shards on the white linoleum. _At least that solved my dill dilemma_, he thought as he limped over to the kitchen table. _Of course, now I have glass in my foot, but I suppose that's the price I pay for indecisiveness._

Kurt chuckled as he plunked himself down into one of the chairs at the table and lifted his foot into his lap. His heel was smeared with blood, and he could see the three little triangles of glass poking out of his skin. There were probably more that he couldn't see around the little wells of blood popping up along the skin of his heel. Fantastic.

He leaned in close and carefully grasped the bloody glass between his fingernails, yanking each piece out as fast as he could. He figured this would be like a band-aid: the faster he pulled, the faster the pain would ebb.

He felt a prick of tears at the corner of his eyes and more laughter bubbled up in his chest. Of course. He'd been stupid, delusional even, to think that he'd be left alone over the summer. He wondered how they'd found the house number. They weren't listed in the phone book (though he doubted any of the meatheads that shoved him around during the school year even knew what one of those was); maybe they could be found online. It wouldn't be all that hard. He just hoped that they never called the shop. Anyone could pick up there.

Kurt heard the swish of the front door and his heart sunk at the soft footsteps heading toward the kitchen. His dad. He needed to come up with an excuse. And fast.

"Kurt?" His dad came around the corner and frowned at the sight of his son hunched over in one of the kitchen chairs, his foot perched carefully in his lap. "What are you doing?"

"Hey, dad." There was no offered explanation; Kurt figured it would be obvious in a few seconds. He pulled the last piece out and set it down with the others on the hard wood surface of the table.

"Are you hurt?"

"Just a little, yeah, but it's nothing serious. I just dropped one of the spices. Be careful. I haven't had the chance to get everything cleaned up just yet." He shot his dad a shaky smile, but it wasn't returned.

His dad just walked over and scooped him up into his arms without a word. He carried Kurt over to the bathroom, though Kurt's limbs hung out awkwardly over the bridge of his arms, and he plunked him down on the edge of the bathtub. Kurt knew he was probably too heavy for that sort of thing anymore, that doing things like that would hurt his dad's back, but there hadn't really been any room for argument. He lowered his head and sat silently on the bathtub's rim, waiting for his dad to speak.

"Wash off your foot," his dad murmured softly as he dug around in the medicine cabinet for some bandages. "And then slap a few of these on there." He tossed over a little cardboard box and sighed deeply as Kurt fumbled with it in his hands. "What on earth were you doing?"

"Getting dinner ready," Kurt mumbled. "I just wasn't being careful, and I dropped the bottle. Nothing special."

"All right. I'll go fix things up in the kitchen. We can order pizza or something; I don't want you walking around too much on that foot."

Kurt hung his head and reached for the tap. "Okay," he whispered, but his dad had already left. He could live with pizza for one more night. He could live with the sharp, stabbing pain in his foot. They were a small price to pay to keep his dad in the dark. The man didn't need to know about the phone call, about the threats.

It wasn't his battle to fight. Kurt could figure this out on his own.

* * *

Kurt felt himself grow more and more weary as the summer drew to a close. Every day brought him that much closer to the return of school, and he wasn't ready for it. Not by a long shot.

Ever since the phone call he'd been on edge, peering around corners, making sure his dad was always nearby. Every time he was left alone for too long, his body started to go numb, and a terrible, all-encompassing panic began to set in.

_We're coming to get you, fag._

The words bounced around in his head and haunted his dreams.

_We're coming to get you._

What if they acted out on their threat? What if this wasn't just some high school prank or some jocks jerking him around for the hell of it? He hadn't been able to place a name to the voice. It could be anyone.

What if his dad found out?

Kurt couldn't help but shoot terrified glances at the phone during dinner when he and his dad would draw themselves up to the kitchen table, his dad trying to reel him into conversation about the rickety old Ford that Mr. Bronson had brought in or the fancy car with an equally fancy owner that had broken down on the side of the road.

Kurt tried. Really, he did, but the threat hung over his head like a noose, just waiting for the perfect opportunity to slip around his neck and cinch itself tight. He could feel his chest tighten every time he walked into the kitchen, every time he saw the phone sitting there on its charger. There hadn't been any calls except the one, but Kurt had no idea if they would continue, if they would escalate into something far worse, and it strung his nerves so taut that he couldn't sit still. His book remained unfinished in his room; he couldn't focus well enough to keep his eyes on the page, and the tension was getting worse.

He couldn't help it, but every so often, when he lay awake at night in the comfort of his own bed, he pictured his own death. It would probably be slow, a prank or hazing of some sort gone wrong, and he'd be left to bleed to death in a parking lot somewhere. Nothing glamorous. Nothing special. Just another nameless victim to add to the statistics on teen violence. And people would move on.

As though nothing had ever happened.

Except that…except Kurt knew they wouldn't move on. Not everyone. True, he had very little impact on most anyone's life save for one: his dad. Kurt knew that his dad wouldn't be able to move on if he died.

And the thought of his dad wandering about the house, listless and lifeless and just as lost as he'd been after the death of Kurt's mother frightened him far worse than any way he could possibly imagine dying at the hands of the faceless voice from the phone. Maybe in the grand scheme of things Kurt didn't really matter, but he was the world to his dad, even if the man never said it, and that in itself was more than enough reason for Kurt to guard his life like it was more precious than gold. His dad was worth it.

And so he watched the phone like a hawk, swooping in to grab the receiver first, no matter where he was. He didn't know if he'd be able to stand his dad ever finding out about the call or, god forbid, receive one himself. The thought was more than he could bear.

It was a quiet August day. Not too many cars coming through at the shop, and the fixes had been relatively simple. Just a few new tires, a little brake work on an old sedan and a new suspension for a station wagon about to go back on the market. It had been hot in the garage, and Kurt had never been more thankful to sink into the air conditioned bliss of the cab of his father's truck. Yes, he was sweaty and covered in dirt and grease, but the work was done and he was finally in a place where he could focus on something other than the way the sweat made his t-shirt cling to the skin of his back.

A shower, or perhaps several, were definitely in his near future. Followed shortly by his nightly skin care routine and maybe a little extra work for his hands. They were absolutely disgusting.

The car rumbled under him and Kurt felt himself get lulled into a light doze. His dad would be there soon—he'd just needed to lock up, grab a few minor things. Nothing big or that would take very long. Kurt sighed as he relaxed himself deeper into the canvas seat. The doors were locked. No one could reach him, and his dad was right around the corner. He was safe.

He cracked open an eye at the light tapping on the door. Speaking of his dad, there he was, waiting just beside the car for Kurt to let him in. Kurt snaked his hand over to his door and pressed the button to unlock everything, letting his dad slide into the driver's seat unhindered.

"Hey, bud. Sorry to make you wait."

"That's okay, dad. I didn't mind. The air conditioner is heavenly."

Burt chuckled lightly, and Kurt let himself relax, even as the seatbelt dug uncomfortably into the exposed skin of his neck. This felt nice. Easy.

"You did good today, kiddo." Burt reached over and ruffled Kurt's already messy hair. The rough fingers were warm on his scalp and Kurt found that he didn't really care that his dad's soiled fingers had probably just undone months of careful washings and care. He felt connected to his dad then in more than just protecting the man from the horrors of Kurt's everyday life, and that _meant_ something. Kurt felt his chest grow warm as he settled into his seat one more time. The houses were getting far more familiar, the twists and turns of the road like the halls of their house; they were almost home.

But something wasn't right as they turned the corner into their cul-de-sac and their house came into view. A few people, neighbors from the look of them, had gathered just outside on the sidewalk and were pointing up at the roof where there now sat four deck chairs and a table, complete with its umbrella still attached.

Kurt felt his heart sink as the car pulled into the driveway. There was something painted in bright, glaring red on the front door. A message. This whole thing was a fucking message, wasn't it?

His dad was swearing and sputtering in disbelief as he barreled out of the car to get a better look at the roof. All of their lawn furniture had somehow made its way to the top of the house, and by the looks of it, not a single piece was coming down without some sort of encouragement. It probably wouldn't be a cheap fix either.

Kurt was far slower in making his way out of the truck. He didn't want to see the damage. He knew it was there, and that was bad enough. He carefully opened up his door and stepped out onto the pavement, making sure to keep his eyes glued to his feet. It was easier that way; then he wouldn't see the rage and disbelief on his father's face. Then he wouldn't see the confusion of their neighbors. Then he wouldn't have to accept that this had cut him deep enough that he could hardly breathe.

He stepped up to the door and felt his heart jump up into his throat as he read the crudely painted words stretching across the door.

_See you at school._

No. No, no, no, this couldn't be real. It had to be some sort of terrible nightmare that his anxiety-ridden mind had cooked up to prepare him for the start of school. His lungs began to work again but far too fast. He couldn't get enough air and his hands were starting to shake and _why the hell wasn't he waking up?_

He shoved his hand into the pocket of his coveralls and wrenched out his keys, jamming them into the lock without a second thought. The basement. He needed to get down to the basement.

He raced in through the door, leaving his small bundle of keys hanging from the lock as he barreled down the stairs into his room, not even pausing to remove his shoes. He scrambled over to his vanity and jerked open the tiny white drawer.

Come on, come on. It had to be in there somewhere. His thoughts were racing, and he could feel sweat beading once more at his brow. Tears were dripping unbidden from his eyes to the blackened skin of his hands and the only sound he could hear was the uneven wheeze of his panting breaths.

_Come on. Where are you?_

He slammed the drawer shut and fell onto his bed with a sob. He couldn't find it, and he couldn't think of where else he might have put the damn thing. He needed it now more than ever, and…and he suddenly remembered.

Kurt fell to the carpet, his knees hitting the floor with a loud, pronounced thump. His bag. He'd stuck it into his bag before the end of the school year.

It felt almost as though he were moving through water as he pulled the bag to his body and rifled through the small pocket on its front. The tension in his body melted away the second his fingertips brushed textured plastic.

The knife.

It was still there.

He drew it out and cradled the still sheathed blade to his chest. He didn't need to unfold it; he knew the sharp metal was waiting just beneath the plain surface of its jacket, and that was all the reassurance he needed. The tears continued to flow down his cheeks, but he made no move to stop them.

His bullies, his tormentors, had found their way into the sanctuary of his home and violated it. He wanted to scream and cry and vomit until all of the terrible feelings welling up in his chest disappeared, but he knew better. Kurt had more dignity, more self control than that.

He opened his eyes and drew in a deep breath to calm himself. He was acting stupid. This was nothing, just a stupid prank. It could be fixed. He drew the knife away from his chest and placed it back into the safety of his bag. It would be there if he ever needed it. Even if they'd found their way into his home, they couldn't touch him. He had to remember that.

He sniffed and drug the back of his hand over his eyes to rid his face of tears. He needed to get a hold of himself, stop being such a whiner.

He was Kurt fucking Hummel. He was strong. And this was just one more thing to overcome.

He picked himself up from the floor and made his way over to the stairs, the knife completely forgotten. He needed to get back outside, talk to his dad. Maybe they could figure out a way to get everything down before the weather started to turn.


	4. Chapter 4

His fingers burned. It was going to take several days (or worse, several weeks) before the skin of his hands was anywhere near its former glory. Home manicures were to be his saving grace. But it had been worth it. He'd gladly take the aching, cracked skin of his palms now and have only a faint remnant of that terrible crimson threat sprayed on the old blue paint of the front door than leave it up for the whole world to see. His dad didn't need any more reminders that his son was a freak, and they'd needed to repaint the door anyway. This just gave them an excuse to get it done, though Kurt would admit that he'd have much preferred to do it without the several hundred dollars worth of roof repairs.

But right now, more than the firey pain pulsing through his hands, more than the overwhelming exhaustion that had finally caught up to him, more than the weary acceptance that he hadn't truly escaped his bullies, Kurt wished that he would simply will away the dull, hazy ache that had settled behind his eyes.

And Kurt really, really wished his dad would stop yelling.

"What the hell, Kurt? I thought you said that people had stopped picking on you at school." He hadn't quite given up on that point yet; he'd repeated it at least three times in the past half hour. The message on the door had really shaken him up. Kurt watched his dad pace back and forth across the kitchen floor, his shoes thumping loudly on the linoleum, his arms flailing madly like the branches of a tree caught in a sudden gust of wind. Kurt didn't quite understand why he was getting so worked up about this. It was far easier to just accept it and move on.

He straightened in his seat for a moment to work out the kinks that had lodged themselves in his spine. Working in the garage all day only to scrub away red spray paint from the house for hours on end had really messed with his body, and he would give most anything for a nap right now. He ran his hand over his face, fingers threading through his messy bangs. "And they did, dad. They've just started back up again is all." He'd tired of this conversation long before his dad had opened his mouth. Kurt was near dead on his feet by this time, and frankly, he really didn't give a damn anymore.

"Do you have any idea who could have done this, Kurt? I know it has to be one of those hooligans you go to school with. Why else would they have written _that_ on the door? Do you have any names? Anything?"

"No," he lied, ducking his head low and crossing his arms over his chest. He hated lying to his dad, but there was no use in giving him names. Kurt had a perfectly good idea who had done this, but it wouldn't do them any good. Not really. Names meant nothing without proof.

"You sure?" His dad didn't believe him judging by the skepticism in his voice, but Kurt was too tired to argue. "Because this is serious vandalism, Kurt. We should press charges. Just tell me if you know anything." He leaned down close over the kitchen table and locked his grey eyes with Kurt's. "Anything at all."

Kurt just sighed and slumped down into his chair. He'd had a long, exhausting day before they'd discovered the vandalism to the house, and now he just wanted this whole mess to be done and over with. "No, dad. I don't know who could have done this." _Except maybe the football or hockey bums_. "And even if I did, it wouldn't matter anyway. It's not like we could prove anything. I'll…look, I'll help pay for the repairs to the roof—you can take it out of what I get from the garage." He smiled tiredly up at his dad. "I could live with only one new scarf for the fall."

"Kurt…"

"And I can afford paint for the door now. I know I have enough in my bank account for that. Besides, it'll give me something to do on Sunday. We've needed to repaint that door for a while now anyway."

"But Kurt—"

"It'll be _fine_, dad. It'll make me feel useful."

"But you already _are _useful—you cook, you clean, you do laundry—"

"Yes, and it makes me feel like a housewife," Kurt moaned, rolling his eyes. "Just let me do this one thing. Please? I'm the one they targeted anyway."

"And that's what worries me, bud." Burt shuffled over to his son and drew him into a tight embrace. "I can't lose you, Kurt. You know that."

Kurt tentatively brought his own arms up and rested his hands on the warm expanse of his dad's back. He prayed that the man couldn't feel the thin tremors running through his body. "I know, dad," he whispered. "I know. But everything's fine. I promise. This was just a stupid prank."

Kurt didn't really know if he believed his own words, but speaking them made him feel better. He could do this. He just needed to be strong. He could be strong for his dad.

* * *

Sophomore year, thankfully, was starting off far easier than freshman year. No one had bothered to touch his locker yet, and the fresh meat of the incoming freshman class made sure that the slushies were less frequent, at least this far. He'd only been back at school for a week, so that could change.

Of course, Puckerman, Hudson and their brood of intellectually-challenged meatheads had decided that dumpster tossing was a far more suitable form of greeting than a hip or shoulder check into the lockers, so he now had that to look forward to. They still did everything else too, but the dumpster dives tended to leave less bruises. A reasonable compromise if the smell eking through the thin plastic bags of garbage wasn't too bad. Things were looking up.

But the best part of sophomore year, he had to admit, was the drama. According to the rumor mill, the creepy choir director, Mr. Ryerson, had been fired for inappropriate conduct with a student—one of the seniors last year, Hank Saunders, apparently. No one had confirmed if they'd actually been having sex or if Mr. Ryerson had simply been creeping on him, but the news was both delicious and exciting in its scandal. Both the choir and the glee club were dead in the water until another teacher stepped in; Figgins was too cheap to hire someone new (the arts were dying anyway so why bother), and no one particularly wanted to run the swirling pool of despair that was glee club. The choir had been on its last legs anyway.

So Kurt was genuinely surprised to see a sign up sheet for it ("New Directions," what a stupid name) posted on the bulletin board in the main hall when he walked inside the building on Monday morning. The unassuming slip of paper was completely blank.

It caught his eye the first time he passed it on his way to class, but he made no move to sign. Kurt could sort of dance and he definitely knew that he could sing—he was a countertenor with an extremely wide and versatile range—but the thought of being in glee club made him uneasy. It would only paint a bigger target on his back, and he'd really been enjoying his greater anonymity among the student body thus far. Why not take advantage of it while it lasted? Singing was fun and all, but it wasn't worth going back to the way things had been. Besides, if he signed up, his name would be the first (and possibly the only) one on there. His grip tightened on the pen in his hand at the thought, and he tried to further tune out the low drone of his math teacher's voice. He hadn't been that much of a target lately. What if seeing his name written on that page made his tormentors remember their previous ire?

He thought back to late July and finding the lawn furniture nailed to the roof, to the threatening phone call in June, to February and the pee balloon incident. He couldn't take that level of harassment for very long. More importantly, his _dad_ couldn't take that level of harassment very long. It wasn't worth it.

He sighed and tried to relax as his eyes trailed down to the beautiful blue fabric of his jacket. One of the better pieces from Marc Jacobs's newest collection and by far one of his favorite pieces of clothing right now. It also happened to be one of the few things he could afford to get this fall that was actually in style. Finn was to thank for it being in one piece. He'd been incredibly sweet in letting him take it off before he'd been hoisted over the lip of the dumpster. He looked over at the other boy, hoping no one noticed.

Finn was…Finn was something else. There were really no words for him. He was tall and fit, and he had one of the best smiles Kurt had ever seen. And though he was almost always there for Kurt's early morning flights into the garbage, he was never actually one of the ones doing the throwing; he had even convinced them to start sparing his bag after the first day back, and this morning he'd rescued his jacket. Kurt's eyes traced over the lines of Finn's back, and he allowed himself a tiny smile.

Maybe this—all those little gestures of kindness—maybe they meant something.

Kurt laid his head in his hand and watched the jock attempt to follow the problems scribbled across the board and take notes. Finn really was something else. And now that they shared a class, Kurt could watch him without looking like some sort of crazy stalker.

Kurt had done a lot of soul-searching over the summer and found that he couldn't deny it to himself any longer. Kurt Hummel was gay. Completely and unequivocally gay, though he'd never admit it aloud. Most everyone already assumed it anyway, so it wasn't that much of a stretch, but he couldn't tell his dad; Kurt couldn't bear to lay that on him after everything else. It wasn't fair. And as much as he loved his dad, Kurt really didn't know what to expect from the man, so keeping quiet was the best solution. Deny it when asked and look from afar. Don't touch. Don't act out on his feelings, and everything would be okay. Simple enough.

It really was hard to share a class with Finn, though. Kurt found that it was very difficult to care about whatever the teacher happened to be lecturing on when the only thing he could see was the boy he had a crush the size of Montana on. He was still mad at the guy, sure—he couldn't just forgive the things that he and his little group of friends had done to him—but he was definitely the nicest of the bunch who regularly picked on him, and maybe if Kurt was able to be a little nicer to him back, things would get better between them. Maybe Finn would see just how much he wanted Kurt and—he shook his head and buried his face in his notebook, trying to look as inconspicuous as possible.

He felt a steady heat rising from his neck to color his cheeks and ears. Crap. He was blushing. He was blushing after daydreaming about Finn Hudson. Double crap. He pretended to furiously take down notes on angles and formulas and whatever the heck Mr. Sinacori had been talking about before.

So Finn. The guy looked to be about as straight as they come, but Kurt could do worse. The boy was fairly sweet, if a bit dull, and he was very easy to watch from afar. Yes, Kurt could do much worse. Like Puckerman. He didn't think he could ever forgive himself if he'd fallen for that raging asshole.

But what would Finn think, what would he _do_, if Kurt's name suddenly appeared on that sign up sheet? Would he and Puckerman amp up their game? Would Finn no longer let Kurt remove his jacket or hold his bag when they chucked him into the dumpster? Would Finn finally be one of the guys shouting slurs and names at him as he walked down the halls?

No, Kurt wasn't willing to take that chance.

Except that, as he passed by the slip of paper on his way to lunch, he noticed a name scribbled across the top line. It was probably nothing—someone's idea of a cheap joke, like 'Seymour Butts' or 'Amanda Hugginkiss'—but curiosity got the best of him. He paused, pretending to examine the poster for SAT prep hanging right above it and was shocked. He knew that name, and it wasn't a joke.

Mercedes Jones was written proudly across the top line in her familiar curly script, and Kurt took pause, the paper in his hand falling away. He was openly starting at the sign up sheet now.

Mercedes. They really didn't see each other very much, but the girl had grown on him. They'd even hung out once or twice over the summer, and for Kurt, that was about as close to friendship as he was ever going to hope for. She'd had the courage to sign up for the stupid thing, so maybe…his hand twitched and he almost reached down into his bag for a pen but stopped.

He couldn't do this. Glee would just make him a bigger target. He loved Mercedes, he really did, and he'd love to have an activity to share with her so they could spend more time together, but he wasn't ready to put himself on the spot like that. Besides, he had no idea yet who had taken over the club. It was probably some creeper like Mr. Sinacori. Things like this attracted weirdoes like flies to honey. His hand fell away and he turned his face from the bulletin board. He couldn't do this. But he could go to the glee club performances, support Mercedes and cheer loudly for her after every number.

After all, that's what friends are for, right?

* * *

But the damn sheet wouldn't let him go. He walked by it again on his way out the door to the buses and Mercedes was still the only name written there. It was tempting—he loved talking to her when he got the chance, and doing glee would definitely give him an excuse to see her more often—but he held himself back.

Singing and dancing when he was alone in his basement on the weekends or when he was just stepping out of the shower was all well and good, but getting up and doing it in front of other people? Sure, he'd like that. It would mean all those adoring eyes centered right on him, all that applause just for him, and damn if that wasn't a good feeling.

But this wasn't California. This wasn't New York. This was Lima, Ohio. And really, Kurt was flaming enough without tagging 'participates in show choir' to the list of reasons why Kurt Hummel is the biggest queer McKinley High has ever seen.

But still. It was a nice dream. And he'd have Mercedes to talk to, even if it was just for an hour or so after school.

He curled up into the leather seat of the bus, thankful for once that no one wanted to sit next to him, and studied the graffiti on the back of the seat in front of him. Someone had carved out half of a name off to the side (Travis or something similar), and there was a myriad of little melted faces staring back at him, left behind by someone's lighter. The bus rattled and jumped with every turn, and Kurt pressed himself tighter against the glass window.

Glee.

What kind of teacher had wanted to coach that train wreck? No one was entirely sure. There had been no name on the sign up sheet specifying who the sponsoring teacher was, just "New Directions." He snorted and wondered if any of the jocks would come by and deface the thing to 'Nude Erections.' Maybe the whole thing was a joke.

But maybe, maybe show choir could be a good thing. As long as he downplayed it to his dad, then maybe this could be a positive bit to add to his day. And there'd be at least one person he knew, one person who didn't want to shove him away or wish him a quick trip to hell. Maybe it'd be worth it.

And there'd be costumes. Costumes were always a plus. He smiled a little to himself as the bus slowed to a great, hissing stop to let off the first group of kids. Kurt clutched his bag to his side and made his way down the steps to the sidewalk and started off his daily trek around the neighborhood to throw off any followers. This whole glee thing might be fun. And it could mean him getting a car that much faster after he turned sixteen. His dad wouldn't want him walking home all the time.

His smile widened a little, his breath rising up before him like smoke in the cold afternoon air. Yeah, he'd bring it up to his dad tonight.

* * *

It was the slushie that really settled it for him. His dad had been supportive of the idea; an after school activity meant that Kurt might actually start making friends. Kurt was finally interested in something. Something that involved other people. And really, that was enough for his dad, even if he didn't get the whole singing and dancing bit.

And so Kurt had come into school, proud and confident in his decision to audition, but his nerve left him as soon as the paper came into view. It was the same as it had been yesterday. 'Mercedes Jones' was still the only name there. No vandalism, no nothing thus far. Kurt tried to will his feet to move closer to it, but he couldn't do it.

_Come on, Kurt. It's just your name. If the jocks had seen the stupid thing they'd have scribbled 'penis' all over it by now._

He gripped his bag a little tighter and stared at the sheet. People's shoulders and backpacks jostled him as they walked by, and they shot him dirty looks as they passed, irritated at the kid who was blocking hallway traffic.

His fingers itched to grab one of his pens and just put his damn name down, but there was a creeping sensation slowly making its way down his spine that made him freeze. There was a harsh, acrid smell suddenly filling his senses and he felt far too warm. His back felt wet. So did his feet. Oh god, what if someone had filled a water gun or something with pee again and had hit him while he was standing here?

His breath caught in his throat and his shoulders seized.

Oh god, oh god, oh god, he could feel it _everywhere_, in his hair, sliding down the back of his legs, warm and wet and making his skin burn like acid. That must be why his eyes were burning. It had gotten in his hair again. He bolted, leaving the sign up sheet untouched.

If the bathroom had been his safe haven last year, it was his saving grace now. He dashed inside and flung himself at the sinks. Mirror. He needed a mirror. He had to see how bad the damage was.

But there was nothing. His hair was just as dry and pristine as it had been when he'd stepped out the door that morning. His clothes were completely clean. His eyes were just a little watery and his face a little flushed. Nothing more. He'd imagined the whole thing.

He sucked in a deep breath and tried to calm himself. He was being stupid. His bullies hated him, yes, and he wouldn't put it past them to nail him with pee again when he least expected it, but they weren't stupid enough to do it in the hallways. Even if the teachers did next to nothing about the bullying at McKinley, _someone_ would have to notice, someone would have to say something, if that sort of thing were to happen. The slushies happened all the time and no one really cared about that, but a pee attack in the main hall would be something to write home about. Parents would be outraged, maybe even pull their kids from the school. Funds would disappear. Maybe something might actually be done about the student-on-student violence.

Now he almost wished they had done it.

A little cool water on his face did wonders to calm his nerves, but as he stepped from the bathroom, he couldn't make himself go back to the sign up sheet. Not yet. Maybe after lunch. Some other time when he wasn't quite so unsteady.

He turned the corner, rushing a little to make it to his first class on time, but was stopped dead in his tracks by a burst of red to his eyes. His face burned with cold, and he could hear laughter as people swept past him. His mouth opened and shut like a fish out of water as he tried to breath without using his nose. He would never mistake again after a slushie attack. His sinuses had been clogged for days.

Tiny driblets of ice dripped past his parted lips as he tried to regain his momentum. He could taste the oversweet beverage on his tongue.

Cherry. He'd always hated cherry.

He swiped his hands over his eyes to clear away the fruity sludge enough that he could see and turned back toward the bathroom. So much for first hour.

* * *

As he rubbed his fifth paper towel through his dripping hair, the crinkly brown paper finally coming away without any pink stains, he got a good look at himself in the mirror.

What a mess. His clothes were soaked, both from the damn slushie and his attempts to get the dye out of the fabric. He let out a huff of air and gripped the edges of the sink. What was he doing?

He was being a coward. It didn't matter if he showed up in a letterman's jacket or a hula skirt, assholes would still be assholes, and Kurt Hummel would still be a freak. Mercedes at least had the courage to sign up for something she loved, something she was probably fantastic at. He knew she sang with her church choir, and the little bits he'd garnered from her in their brief conversations suggested that she was one of the stars in that group. It wouldn't surprise him. She had a stage presence like no other.

He locked eyes with his reflection. He could do that if he tried. He could be that. He just needed to grow a pair and put himself out there.

He was Kurt Hummel. And he was fabulous. He just needed to give the rest of the world a little time to see that. Yeah, he could do this. And a glee club, if they got good enough, could possibly help him get out of this cow town. He could see the bright lights of the city already, and no one was going to stop him. Not now.

He grabbed his bag from the floor and dug around in the front flap, searching for his comb. He had time. Might as well make himself look presentable. As he probed through the assorted items stuffed inside the pocket, his fingers brushed over the textured surface of his knife, and he felt himself calm. It was still there. He hadn't forgotten about it, not once, and its presence was reassuring. He could do this. He just needed a little courage. As soon as he had on a fresh change of clothes and pulled his hair into some semblance of order, he was going to put his name down on that list.

He was already hated anyway. Why not give his tormentors some real ammo? He was Kurt Hummel.

He could handle it.


	5. Chapter 5

Author's notes: So I was trying to figure out how I was going to move forward with this story once I got to the canon timeline (read: the chapter before this), and really the only way I could find to do this properly without making everything seem oddly abrupt and awkward was to essentially retell canon events with missing scenes and such. That means that at the rate I'm going, this story is going to be ridiculously long. Take that as a good thing or a bad thing, whichever you prefer. I don't think the dialogue is particularly good for this part, but hopefully my updates on this guy will be faster now that I have some idea of the pacing I need to have. Also, randomly, while researching for this story, I found out that my MySpace account still exists. Too bad I can't for the life of me remember the email I used for it so I can delete it, so I guess it's there for all eternity.

* * *

Kurt studied the papers in his hand, his chest growing lighter and lighter as he went over the words in his head, the reality of it all still taking its sweet time to sink in. His head had yet to stop spinning. His name and personal information stared back at him in plain black letters, the state seal posted pristinely in shades of grey just above it all in the top right-hand corner, and the proud sweep of his signature looped along the bottom.

Kurt Hummel was now officially a licensed driver in the state of Ohio.

The nervous energy that had his hand shaking around the little yellow pencil they'd given him for the test was back again, and he wanted nothing more than to run up to his dad, throw his arms around him and celebrate. He was sixteen today, and he'd just completed one of the first steps toward becoming an adult.

All of those hours spent crammed into that stuffy room with nearly forty other teens eager and ready to get themselves out onto America's roadways, all of the monotonous homework about things that he'd never hear about again that his instructors never bothered to collect, all of the spitballs and sweaty bodies he'd been shoved against for hours at a time after school, all of the hours of his father's careful patience and steady tutelage to erase any damage done by incompetent instructors were not in vain. The proof was in the paper, and soon he'd have his own little plastic identification card with the token unflattering picture to prove that yes, he was fully capable of driving his dad's truck by himself.

There was no wiping away the huge smile that had spread across his face as he made his way over to his dad. The look on his face made everything, even sitting next to that strange guy who smelled like an alleyway for a half hour at the DMV, completely and totally worth it. His dad wrapped an arm around Kurt's shoulders as they headed out the door toward the back where the truck was waiting for them, just where Kurt had left it.

"So you did it." There was no hiding the pride in his dad's voice, and Kurt felt his head grow even lighter. Neither the written nor practical tests had been hard—he had been more than prepared for both—but this was a right of passage. It was important. And it made Kurt feel more important.

"Yes. I did."

"Was it as hard as you thought?"

"Surprisingly, no, though I have to admit that Beatrice there," he waved in the general direction of the building behind them as they meandered down the cracked pavement of the parking lot. The large woman who'd tested Kurt was just visible beyond the tiny window in the door. Kurt leaned into his dad with a light chuckle, "I won't lie, she was kind of terrifying."

His dad spared a glance back and nodded. "Yeah, can't argue there."

Kurt laughed and straightened his sweater. The blue fabric had bunched up around his waist, the hem riding up too high on his thighs. "I must say, though, that her mustache was rather impressive. I was going to say something, but figured that she might not appreciate the compliment."

"Probably not." Burt clapped his hand against Kurt's shoulder. "So where to? It being your birthday and all, I thought that maybe we could go out somewhere you like and get something to eat."

"I don't know. Takeout and a movie on the couch is sounding pretty good right now."

His dad's eyebrows crept upward in surprise. "You sure, bud? I'm willing to eat whatever fancy, healthy whatsits food whose name I couldn't pronounce in a million years without a hint of resistance. Are you sure to want to pass up that opportunity?"

Kurt laughed a little and shook his head. "Oh, believe me when I say that's tempting, but I think I'd really rather just head on home. Sitting there in the DMV has made me want to avoid human contact for a while."

"Well, all right then. If you say so," his dad chuckled. "But I do have one favor to ask."

"Ask away."

"Do you mind if we stop by the garage on the way home. There's something there I need to pick up."

Kurt shrugged. "Sure. I'm not in any hurry."

* * *

As much as he detested dirt and grime, Kurt really did love the garage. He loved working on the cars, listening to the chatter of the guys as they brought vehicles back to life, spending time with his dad, everything. The place was like a second home. He pulled the truck around near the front door to drop his dad off while he swung around to the back to park, but the man shook his head once he saw what Kurt was doing. "No, don't bother. Just go on around to the back right away. I need your help with this."

Kurt raised an eyebrow but didn't question the change in direction. "You do realize that if this messes up my clothes, that you're…buying…" he trailed off as he pulled around into the parking lot at the back of the shop. His hands moved of their own accord, shifting the truck to a complete stop, before he turned to look at his dad, his mouth opening and closing like a fish gasping for air. "Is that…?"

Sitting there on the asphalt was a brand new Lincoln Navigator. A large red bow was perched atop its roof in perfect contrast to the black sheen of the car's paint. Kurt stared at the car through the windshield and then back at his dad, his breath coming in short, excited gasps. "Oh my god, is that really…?" He gestured frantically at himself, and his dad simply answered with a silent nod. Kurt scrabbled at his seatbelt, eager to get out of the cab to inspect the car in front of them.

His suddenly reached dad pressed a hand to Kurt's chest to keep him from bolting from the car. "Hand on just a second there, bud. I've got a few things I need to tell you before you go running off."

Kurt stilled, but his heart was pounding from all the nervous energy running through him. "Okay," he breathed out, trying to keep himself calm. "Okay. Dad, this is so incredible. I mean, I don't even—"

"Yeah, I know. I just want to lay down a few ground rules before I hand over the keys."

"Okay. Rules. I can do that."

"First, I'll pay for gas once a month. That should last you plenty to get you to school, here and home with a little left over for going to the mall or a friend's house or wherever. Any more than that, and you've got to pay for it, okay?"

"Yeah. Yeah, I can do that."

"Second, I want you to be safe. You're a pretty good driver, Kurt, but you're also a teenager. I don't know all the things you guys get up to, but I don't want you horsing around on the road, got it?"

"Yes."

"Good. And lastly, could you not wear any more of those sweater things?" He gestured at Kurt's outfit, making a slight face. "I know you like them and all, bud, but they draw attention to you in all the wrong ways. I don't want you getting picked on, or god forbid another repeat of this summer."

Kurt swallowed, his thoughts racing back to the lawn furniture nailed to the roof of the house, the red paint sprayed across the outside walls and the front door. "Sure. That's perfectly reasonable." He looked over at the car, the smile returning to his face. That was his car. _His_ car. He could give up his long, form-fitting sweaters for that. He was startled out of his reverie at his dad's warm hand on his shoulder.

"And Kurt?"

"Yeah, dad?"

"Happy birthday, kiddo."

* * *

The auditions for glee were held on Wednesday afternoon, and Kurt was surprised to see a small group of kids lined up against the wall outside the auditorium, waiting for the doors to open. He hadn't bothered to look at the sign up sheet after he'd put his name down (it had been missing later on in the week, though he supposed that the great red streaks of slushie that decorated the bulletin board more than anything else), and some part of him had half expected it to be just him and Mercedes standing outside the auditorium today. He hadn't really expected anyone else to care. He glanced at the clock at the end of the hall. The auditions themselves didn't start until three thirty, so they had some time to get to know one another, he supposed.

He scanned over the other four kids, not quite sure what to make of them. There was the gothic Asian girl he'd seen in the halls (and he thought that perhaps he'd seen her in his English class or somewhere, but she would be one of those kids who sat in the back, out of the way and forgettable). He'd never spoken to her, that was for sure. She was standing beside a spectacled boy in a wheelchair, Artie. Kurt definitely knew him from their shared biology and history classes. He was kind of hard to miss.

And of course there was Mercedes. She was standing at the very front of the pseudo line, trying her best to ignore the fashion disaster beside her. Kurt knew the tiny brunette who was nattering away about show tunes and Broadway. That was the infamous Rachel Berry. One of the most insufferable girls in the entire school, notorious for having joined every single club last year simply so she could be featured in their yearbook photo. His teeth ached just looking at her, both from the atrocity that was her wardrobe and the grating sound of her voice.

Kurt gripped the strap of his messenger bag and fought the urge to run. It wasn't that these kids were intimidating. Far from it, actually. But he wasn't exactly comfortable with the idea of sharing his third period and three afternoons a week what might be the largest collection of losers since the miniatures club had been disbanded.

He breathed in deep through his nose and sighed. He was already here. Might as well give it a shot. Glee counted as a class and was thus one more credit toward graduation. It was also something for him to do with kids his own age. As much as he liked hanging around the garage, it was messy work (that was absolute murder on his skin and hair), and most of the guys, though they were used to him and tried to treat him like one of their own, were still uncomfortable around him. Whether it was his age or his flamboyant nature he didn't know, but no one dared say anything about it when he was around. No one wanted to say anything bad about the boss's son.

"Hey, Mercedes," he greeted softly, hoping to draw Mercedes away from the girl at her side.

"Kurt. Thank god." She pushed herself away from the wall to join him at the other end of the line, leaving Rachel gaping after her. "How you been, boy? I haven't seen you in a while."

"I've been pretty good."

She propped her shoulder against the wall. "So I didn't know that you sing. Why weren't you in glee club before?"

He cringed. "I didn't really want to be around Mr. Ryerson any more than possible."

"Can't blame you there. He was absolutely awful last year. And then there was the whole thing with Hank. He was a creeper through and through. Can't say that I'm sad to see him gone."

He raised an eyebrow at that. He hadn't known that Mercedes had been in the glee club before it was disbanded. "You know what happened?"

"Not all the details, but I know more than the average gossip around here, that's for sure." Her grin was wide and almost predatory. She'd caught the attention of Artie and his companion judging from their curious looks their direction. Rachel was pointedly ignoring the group, her back toward them like a wall.

"What happened with him?" Artie wheeled himself over, and the silent Asian girl followed closely behind, staying just out of the way. "I heard he got caught with Mr. Ryerson in the teacher's lounge."

"Really? I thought it was in the janitor's closet." Kurt cast a wary look at Rachel, who seemed to be doing her best to ignore the group. "Though I suppose _someone_ here would know more about this than even you, Mercedes." All eyes were suddenly on Rachel, and she shrunk back defensively against the wall.

"I really have no idea what you're talking about."

"Oh, come on, girl. I mean, Mr. Ryerson was one of the biggest creepers around, but everyone, and I mean _everyone_, knows it was you who turned him in."

"That is a complete and utter fallacy."

"That's not what I heard."

Mr. Schuester, one of the Spanish teachers, decided then to make his rather timely appearance. He jogged up to the teens, his arms stuffed with a messy stack of papers, his breath coming in short little pants. "Hey, guys. Sorry I'm late." So. This was the mysterious faculty member who wanted to revive the glee club. Kurt looked him over with a critical eye. He'd never taken Spanish, but he'd heard a few things about the young teacher in front of him. Whatever. They could do far worse.

Schuester grinned at them, and looked down at the papers in his hands. "Okay, so Mercedes?"

"That's me."

"You're first up. Let's head on in, shall we?" He started for the auditorium, freeing up one of his hands to dig around in his pants pocket for the keys, but he froze, turning to face them. "Oh, um. I suppose these should be closed auditions. Do you guys mind waiting out here?"

They were silent for a moment, looking at one another for support, before shaking their heads. Rachel stepped up from her spot against the wall, and Kurt fought the urge to roll his eyes. "While I would love to showcase my talents for everyone, I believe that witnessing a performance by me so soon in our relationship might scare away any competition."

Kurt was oddly thankful that Mr. Schuester stepped in before he or Mercedes let that sink in long enough to form a coherent response.

"Okay. Thank you, Rachel. If you guys could just wait out here then. I'll have the person auditioning before you come out to get you when they're finished."

He disappeared inside the double doors of the auditorium, Mercedes hot on his heels. Kurt watched her go, wishing that he could follow, if only to escape the awkward silence that had settled over the group remaining in the hall. Kurt cast one last look at them, taking in Artie's suspenders, Tina's stake in the Hot Topic franchise, Rachel's…everything. He straightened his jacket with a long sigh.

Well. This was going to be interesting.

* * *

He toed off his shoes, hiking his bag a little higher on his shoulder. The house was just as quiet as it had ever been. Kurt craned his neck toward the kitchen and shook his head, deciding against starting on dinner. The clock on the wall was telling him that it was just a little after four fifteen. Huh. The whole audition thing hadn't really taken very long. That he'd expected it to. He'd been second out of five kids interested. No one was going to be turned away, no matter how awful they were.

He sighed and ran his fingers through his hair. Maybe this glee thing wasn't such a good idea, but it was better than moping around the house. It would give him something to do for a few weeks until it died out. Until then, he'd just try and wring as much enjoyment from it as he could.

He pulled out his cell phone and dialed the garage. His dad had told him to keep checking in at least until the end of the month. After that, he said he'd leave it up to Kurt's discretion. He was old enough to drive himself to and from school. He was old enough to be responsible once he got home.

He pressed the phone to his ear as made his way over toward the basement door.

"Hummel Tire and Lube. This is Jerry."

Kurt smiled. He'd known Jerry since he was very little. The man was like an uncle to him. "Hey, Jerry. It's Kurt."

"Hey, kiddo. You need to talk to your old man?"

"If he's available. If not, could you just tell him I called?"

"Sure thing, Kurt. He's finishing up with a customer right now, so it's probably best not to bother him."

Kurt laughed a little, fingering the handle to the basement door, as he pictured Mrs. Folsom from last week trying to haggle for a complete set of new tires. His dad could be rather single-minded when it came to dealing with people at the shop. "That's fine. I'll be by tomorrow."

"All right, Kurt. I'll see you then. You take care of yourself, okay?"

"I'll try." He snapped his phone shut and opened the door to the basement. The carpeted steps were soft under his feet as he shuffled down the steps to his room. He flicked on the light, and the white sterile walls of his bedroom flashed into view. He dropped his bag beside his vanity and flopped down onto his bed, sinking into the mattress.

The quiet consumed him, and he closed his eyes, finally letting himself relax. This had been an interesting day. Nothing terribly bad had happened—just the morning dumpster toss (Finn hadn't bothered to rescue his jacket today, but he had held Kurt's bag until he'd managed to crawl out of the garbage), and someone had tried to trip him at lunch. Nothing overly bad.

He looked over at his vanity. The note from last year was tucked up just under the mirror. Inconspicuous enough that his dad wouldn't think it was anything should he come down here for whatever reason, but in a place where Kurt could still see it. He didn't want to hide the thing. That felt too much like forgetting. Too much like forgiving. But his dad couldn't know about it unless the worst happened.

Kurt shook his head and threw himself backward, bouncing a little on his bed. He needed to think of something else, something positive.

Glee club. That was something. He felt that his solo had gone rather well. He'd been a little shaky around the middle, but he'd killed the last note. Schuester had been damn near speechless once he'd finished. He snorted. Let's see Miss Rachel Berry do _that_.

Wait. He shot up straight. Rachel. A little diva like her was sure to have a MySpace or something where she could moan about her troubles online. He looked over at the clock on his desk. He had time before his dad made it home and he'd have to actually start on dinner or his homework. He slid himself from his bed and started for the stairs.

The only computer in the house was the desktop in his dad's office, but Kurt used it the most often. He wasn't particularly fond of roaming around online unless there was really nothing of consequence to be done, but he felt that he could make an exception for this. He needed to know something about the people he was going to be sharing eight hours of his week with, right?

He crept into the room and took a seat at the old leather office chair in front of the monitor. He swiped the mouse back and forth a couple of times to boot the screen up; neither he nor his dad bothered to shut the computer down entirely unless it needed to update itself or something. Kurt felt like he should care more about how wasteful it was to leave the thing on, but found that he really didn't care. He had to use it often enough to type up papers and things that it was far easier to ignore the fact that the machine had a power switch at all. He sighed as he swiveled back and forth in the chair. It would be nice to have a laptop or something down in his room. Maybe for Christmas.

The screen flickered to life, and Kurt opened up the internet. At least their connection was relatively fast. He wasn't a big internet user, but he was fairly certain that their computer would have gone through the window in the living room long ago had his dad not upgraded to a high speed connection. He typed in the address for MySpace and waited for the page to load.

He'd had one of these (probably still did; he wasn't exactly the best at erasing his internet presence) but found it more often than not to be a waste of time. No one gave two shits about him in the real world. Why should anyone care online? Affection from faceless strangers could only do so much to lift one's mood, and Kurt never really was much of one for false sympathy. It was too hard to tell when people were being sincere when they were hiding behind words on a screen.

He quickly typed 'Rachel Berry' into the search bar and was rewarded with her profile at the very top of the page. He clicked on it and was greeted by link after link of videos Rachel had uploaded of herself. He scrolled down the list, scowling as her outfits got worse and worse. What was it with this girl and what appeared to be hand-knitted animal sweaters? He opened up one of her wearing a simple but unflattering button-down shirt, something he could at least stand to look at for more than ten seconds without wanting to gouge out his eyes, and leaned back in his seat as Rachel began to sing.

She was good, he had to give her that. Even though she was singing unaccompanied in her room with subpar recording equipment, he had to acknowledge that she did have talent to back up her boasting. He sighed as he leaned forward onto the computer desk, his hand moving back to the mouse. He certainly wasn't looking forward to spending a class periods and several afternoons a week with her, but at least they'd have plenty of vocal power to back them up between her and Mercedes.

He scrolled down, hoping to perhaps find some whiny journal of Rachel's that he could use for blackmail later on, but his eye caught on the comment bar.

_If I were your parents, I'd sell you back._

_I'm going to scratch out my eyes._

_Please get sterilized._

Huh. He inspected the icons and usernames. Interesting. He looked over at some of the other posts to see comments from the same usernames, tiny pictures of pompoms and girls flipping into the air in tiny red skirts dotting the entire page. So the cheerleaders had it in for Rachel. He closed out of the window, Rachel's haunting voice coming to an abrupt halt as the application disappeared.

He stared at the screen and thought back to the note tucked away downstairs in his room. It really shouldn't have surprised him as much as it did to see Rachel getting bullied online. Heck, she was practically asking for it with the way she acted and dressed. He sank back into the chair and folded his arms over his stomach. But that was the problem, wasn't it? Because everything that was wrong with Rachel was wrong with him too, right?

He screwed his eyes closed and swiveled himself back and forth in the chair, the motion strangely comforting. Maybe it was for the best that he be stuck with her for now. The outcasts needed to stick together.

It was far harder to break a stick encased in a bundle than when it was standing on its own.


	6. Chapter 6

Author's notes: Not really my best writing, but I struggled with this chapter. Sorry for the wait.

* * *

This wasn't working. Mr. Schuester certainly had good intentions, but a club with only five members was nothing but a lost cause. And Glee club, while a nice idea in theory, had been doomed from the start. No one wanted to be associated with a club whose previous sponsor had been fired due to alleged pedophilic tendencies. There hadn't been much point in reviving it unless one was sadistic or delusional. But then again, Kurt hadn't really expected much else from the curly-haired Spanish teacher—Schuester wasn't exactly the brightest bulb in the box if he though Kurt was hanging out in front of the dumpsters every morning with a gaggle of jocks because he wanted to 'make friends.' Ridiculous.

Kurt peeled off the cheap white gloves that constituted their costumes for 'Sit Down, You're Rocking the Boat' and slumped down into one of the brown plastic chairs in the back of the room, placing the gloves beside his thigh.

Rachel had stormed out of practice in a rage. Again. It was the third time it had happened since the club started, and it was starting to get old. Sure, she had a killer voice, but that only went so far in a club well on its way to nowhere. Mr. Schue had rushed out after her—probably to encourage her to stick with the group, that they'd get better with practice and rule the school or some other vaguely encouraging nonsense like that. Whatever. It didn't really matter in the end since glee club was going down like the Titanic if they couldn't get some new blood in the group. And that was never going to happen.

Mercedes flopped down beside him, her face pulled into a scowl. "I can't _believe_ her."

"Why?" he mumbled into his hand. "I mean, this club has only been going for what, a week and a half? Maybe two? It isn't like she hasn't done this before. It shouldn't be a surprise at this point."

She sighed and slumped down low in her chair. "I know, but it's still frustrating as hell."

"She did have a point, though. I mean, aside from the whole 'nothing ironic about show choir' thing." Artie wheeled up to the pair of them, Tina hot on his heels. Kurt had found that he rather liked the odd pair. Tina was surprisingly easy to talk to, even with the stutter, and Artie had quite a few connections with groups throughout the school that could come in handy later on. "As much as I hate to admit it, we do kind of suck."

"I guess," Kurt sighed, crossing his arms over his middle. "Not that we can do much about it with our main vocalist storming out every other rehearsal."

Mercedes rolled her eyes and scoffed. "This wouldn't be a problem if I was on lead, you know."

"B-but Artie was lead on this s-s-song."

"And she still left," Artie helpfully pointed out. "I have a feeling that she'd leave if you were singing lead. Or any one of us besides her, really."

"I don't know. Probably. But I'm damn tired of her attitude and I'm far too good to be stuck on backup all the time. Besides, I think she left today because, and no offence to you guys 'cause I think you're pretty good," Mercedes gestured at Kurt at Artie with a flick of her wrist, "but I think Rachel believes we don't have a strong male lead. Actually, I'm pretty damn sure I've heard her say that to Mr. Schue before."

Kurt rolled his eyes in disgust. "She would think that, wouldn't she?"

Every hour, every minute, no, every last _second_ he had to spend in her presence, with her terrible clothes and irritating little gold star motif, just gave him one more reason to dislike Miss Rachel Berry. Most everything about her set his teeth on edge already, and this was just one more thing to add to the list. He could sing quite low, actually (she didn't honestly think Artie was carrying all the lower parts on his own, did she?); it was just more comfortable for him to stay in the upper register, thank you very much.

Besides, Kurt had the sinking feeling that Rachel didn't want a better male lead, she simply wanted a _more attractive _male lead, which was a fantasy at its best. None of the cute boys she dreamed of singing with would join up without serious coercion, and certainly none of them would want her hanging on their arm.

The worst part was that he couldn't say a word of this to her face without risking her leaving the club for good, and that was the last thing he wanted at this point. Kurt wanted this stupid club to live for as long as they could make it because as awful as things were now, he couldn't live with everything going back to how it was before. He actually had _friends _now, and he was going to fight for what had given them to him, no matter how doomed it ultimately was. Rachel was, unfortunately, the key to keeping glee club alive, and that meant keeping his mouth shut.

He sighed and looked at his nails, trying desperately to ignore the thousand insults running through his brain. He could get back at Rachel later when she was around to defend herself. He was above badmouthing people behind their backs, and for now it was probably best to simply let it slide. She could think whatever she damn well pleased as long as it kept her singing. He and Artie sounded perfectly fine singing the male parts, and if she wanted a hunky male lead, she could go out and find one herself.

He'd be sure to send for flowers for her funeral.

* * *

It was the soft rumble of snoring that brought Kurt back to reality. Kurt looked up from his homework, his eyes skirting over the expanse of the couch to his dad's slumped figure, completely relaxed in sleep. The sun had set since they'd moved from the kitchen to the living room after dinner, and everything had gone quite dark compared to when he'd last paid any attention. The yellow light of the lamp at his side did a good job illuminating the papers in front of him, but the flickering light of the TV was throwing odd dancing shadows over everything. His eyes stung a little as they tried to adjust to the fluctuating brightness.

He looked at the clock on the DVR and shook his head with a light smile. It was only eight thirty and his dad was already asleep. Must have been a busy day at the garage.

He lifted his binder from his lap and placed it on the floor beside his chair. Trigonometry could wait for a few minutes. He stretched his legs out in front of him, trying to work out the stiffness that had settled in his knees from sitting for so long before pushing himself to his feet and stumbling over to the TV. A woman was pleasantly rattling off the benefits of some medication for Alzheimer's as his fingers brushed over the power button. Silence fell over the room like a blanket the second the screen went dark. It was a bit jarring, and Kurt was tempted to turn the thing back on, if only to fill the temporary void the sound had left in its absence.

He padded over to the couch and crouched down in front of his dad. The man looked completely relaxed, and Kurt felt more than a little guilty at moving him, but sleeping down here would be murder on his back, and he'd pester Kurt endlessly about not waking him up if he did nothing. Best to just get it over with.

He reached out and placed a hand on his dad's arm, giving it a gentle shake. "Hey, dad." His fingers gripped the sleeve of his dad's shirt and he shook a little harder. "Dad, you need to get up."

The man sputtered awake, his hands flailing a little as he climbed out of the hazy awareness of half-sleep. "Huh, what? Kurt?"

Kurt straightened and smiled down at his dad, crossing his arms in front of his chest. "Yeah, dad, it's me. You need to get to bed."

His dad lifted the rim of his ball cap to look at the clock. His face screwed up into a frown as he read the time. "But it's only eight thirty." He looked at the television, his frown deepening. "And you turned off my show."

Kurt rolled his eyes. His dad could really be quite the petulant child when he wanted to be. "That's because you fell asleep. Seriously, dad, you look exhausted. Why not call it an early night?"

"Yeah, I suppose you're right." His dad wrenched his head back and forth, trying to get rid of the kinks in his neck, before standing and patting Kurt roughly on the shoulder. "You get your homework done?"

"Not yet, but I'm almost finished. Just some math left to do."

"Good. That's good," he mumbled through a yawn, rubbing a hand over his eyes. "God, I didn't think I'd be this tired."

"That's why you should go to bed. I know it's early, but if you're tired…"

"Yeah, yeah." His dad smiled tiredly and shook his head with a soft snort of laughter.

"What?"

"Just you. You'd think that I was the teen and you the parent the way we're acting."

"That's just because you don't want to go to bed."

He chuckled a little at that. "Yeah, I suppose that's true. Your mom used to do that too, you know—make me go to bed when I fell asleep on the couch." He started to reach a hand out to ruffle Kurt's hair but held himself back. Kurt had begged him to stop doing that years ago. Silence hung awkwardly in the air between them, and Burt shuffled uncomfortably on his feet. "You gonna be okay?"

"Yeah, I'll be fine."

"All right." He cleared his throat, and the pair lapsed back into awkward silence for a moment, neither one quite sure what to say. "Um, well, goodnight then."

"Good night, dad." Kurt watched his dad meander over to the stairs, waiting until the last thud of his footsteps faded away to silence before turning back to look at his homework. It stared back at him like some sort of horrible challenge, and he scowled. Math was just about the last thing he wanted to do right now.

Kurt sighed as he walked over to the armchair and gathered his things together. He roughly shoved everything into his bag, not really caring about everything being organized for the time being, and headed for the basement. Maybe a change of scenery would clear his head, help him think.

The light over the carpeted steps leading down to his room was too bright to his tired eyes, but he didn't bother turning it off. It wasn't worth the effort to feel his way down the stairs. The cold white light reflected off the sterile stretch of his colorless walls and carpet, casting everything in an almost eerie blue-ish glow. Maybe he should start pestering his dad about redecorating.

He heaved his bag atop the smooth covers of his bed and set himself beside it with a heavy sigh. The dip of his weight brought his bag sliding closer to his hip, opening the loose flap of his bag's main pocket and causing a ruffled sheaf of paper to shift out of their holdings toward his thighs. His sheet music for glee was there, at the very top of the stack. He reached over and picked it up, the paper crinkling a little between his fingertips.

'Sit Down, You're Rocking the Boat.' It was the first song they'd all gotten down to memory. He flipped through the pages, his eyes skirting over the little green circles and notes he'd used to mark his part on the score. Schuester had him on backing tenor for most of the song, but at some points he moved up to sing alto with Mercedes. No one really knew what to do with him, did they?

He scowled and slapped the music back down, pressing his chin into his upturned palm. It wasn't his fault his voice was the way it was. He couldn't magic it lower through wishes, begging and insults. Enough people had tried those methods, and reality just didn't work that way. Besides, he thought as he flopped down onto his back and stared at the blank ceiling above him, he wasn't even sure that he wanted his voice lower. It wouldn't make him fit in any better; it wouldn't deter his bullies. Nothing would.

Bullies. He sat up straight at the thought, his breath catching in his throat as his eyes shot over to the note stuck to his vanity. It had been a while since they'd done anything big and he'd become complacent, soft. It didn't matter that they'd fallen into a pattern with him; he couldn't let them catch him with his guard down. He had to be ready in case someone thought it was worth it to up the ante, in case one of them decided to follow through on the threats left behind in his locker.

He pulled his bag close and carefully unzipped the small pocket on the front. No one knew about this. Hopefully no one would ever need to know. It was just a precaution, not something he'd probably ever need. But it made him feel so much safer just knowing it was there. He pulled out his knife, fingering the textured surface of its casing with gentle reverence. A little soap and water had done wonders to the old black plastic, and the little lines of dust that had been so stubborn before had come right off. It almost looked new.

His fingers moved around to the hard nubs of metal where he knew the blade rested, and he pushed as hard as he could. It took him two or three tries before the blade finally came free. Too slow. He pushed it back down into its sheath and tried again. It was just one more thing he needed to work on.

Practice made perfect, after all.

* * *

He wasn't quite sure what he'd been expecting, but Kurt's heart leapt into his throat the second he saw Finn Hudson standing beside the piano with Mr. Schuester for their weekly after school rehearsal. The tall football player had seemed distracted this morning during the daily dumpster dive, and the mystery of what had been bothering the other boy had weighed heavy on Kurt's mind all day. He'd assumed Finn's distress had had something to do with his Jesus-loving prude of a girlfriend, Quinn Fabray or maybe indigestion. He'd been wrong, apparently.

"What is _he_ doing here?" Mercedes quipped at the sight of Finn. They all knew that this had to be some sort of sick joke. Or blackmail. There was no other way the quarterback of the football team was joining their club.

"Finn is going to be our newest member, guys, so let's make him feel welcome."

Kurt's eyes immediately shot over to Rachel, who looked caught somewhere between apprehension and ecstasy. It was just as he'd thought. Rachel wasn't interested in a 'male lead who could keep up with her vocally' because none of them knew if Finn could sing at all, let alone well. Rachel didn't care about talent—she just wanted some man-candy to ogle. Whatever. Finn was a new member, something they desperately needed, and Kurt got the extra bonus of more time with the boy of his dreams. So what if Finn couldn't carry a tune in a bucket and his motives for joining were shady? Kurt was more than happy with the arrangement for now.

"All right, guys. Let's line up. Rachel, I want you on stage right. Kurt, you can go beside her. Then Tina, Artie, Mercedes. Finn, I want you on the far left. You're taking the male lead for this number."

The color drained from Finn's face at those words. He shot quick, desperate looks at the other kids before turning his attention back to their director. "But Mr. Schue—"

"No buts, Finn. All right, guys, from the top. Five, six, seven, eight!"

Their ever-present pianist Brad started up the opening riff, and Finn began singing right on cue. His voice was rough, but he was good. _At least he can read music_, thought Kurt smugly. He wasn't sure what they'd do if Finn couldn't even figure out when he was supposed to come in.

And then Rachel began to sing. Kurt should have noticed her sudden spike of interest in Finn the second the tall boy opened his mouth considering her close proximity to him, but he'd been far too focused on making sure he didn't get lost in the monotony of the backing vocals. And let it be known that Kurt got it, he perfectly understood Rachel's attraction to Finn because _damn _if the boy wasn't fine, but that was no excuse for her to touch him—and mess up his hair, no less—while mincing her way across the stage to Finn. He seemed to have fared better than Artie, who'd once again been shoved to near oblivion by Rachel.

"Aw, _hell _to the no." And the music came to an abrupt halt. Kurt watched out of the corner of his eye as Mercedes stormed angrily across the stage to Mr. Schue, breaking Rachel's hold on Finn. "Look, I'm not down with this background singing nonsense. I'm Beyoncé. I ain't no Kelly Rowland."

Of all times for her to bring this up. She couldn't even wait until they'd gotten through one song with Finn to make her grievances known. Mr. Schuester smiled disarmingly at her. "Okay, look, Mercedes, it's just one song."

"And it's the first time we've been kind of good." He really didn't want to defend Rachel, but it was the truth. Finn could definitely sing (he was even mostly in tune singing harmony), and his and Rachel's voices had sounded really pretty nice together. They needed this club to survive, and as much as Mercedes deserved a lead, it was best to cater to Rachel's wants and desires for the time-being.

Mercedes backed down, shooting him a dark look and fell back into line, smiling like she did when she knew she wasn't going to get her way. "Let's run it again."

Schuester didn't seem to notice. "Okay guys, from the top."

* * *

"Kurt."

Oh boy, here we go. "What is it, Mercedes?" He didn't bother to turn around to face her, instead continuing to pack up his things. He knew what this was about, though a part of him was pleased that she'd waited until the auditorium was as good as empty to approach him. He loved drama as much as the next person, but he really wasn't in the mood for it today.

"What didn't you back me up back there, boy? I thought we all agreed that things would be better if I was on lead."

"Mercedes," he said softly as he spun around to face her, his face grim, "you know I think you've got a fantastic voice, and you do, but we need Rachel. Without her, the group's going to die."

"And what does that have to do with her Wonderbreading the stage up there with Captain Skyscraper? Why did you have to take her side in this? Is there something you're not telling me?"

"I already told you that we need her. She's too good of a singer for us to let slip away. But to get someone like Rachel to stay, she has to be happy. For her to be happy, she needs to feel like she's the most important part of the club—the star, if you will. She's Schuester's favorite anyway, so why bother fighting it? You said it yourself that she was unsatisfied with the male voices we had before today, but she seemed plenty happy with Finn from where I was standing. And let's face it, Mercedes—he's really not that bad."

"No, but—"

"Look, I don't want to be swaying in the back behind Rachel any more than you do. And you should know that oohs and aahs are _not_ my thing by any means, but let's humor her for now. If nothing else, then for the sake of the club. We can't afford to have anyone quit on us right now, and Finn, as I said before, is an all right singer. He could even be pretty good with some practice."

She sank back in defeat. "Yeah, I guess. I just…I don't know. I don't trust him."

He smiled and walked over to her, snaking his arm through hers. "I know. And for the record, I don't trust him either. I think someone on the football team put him up to this. Well, that or Mr. Schuester found some way to blackmail him with grades or something."

"He _did _give in to Mr. Schue pretty quickly there, didn't he? What kind of dirt do you think he has on him?"

"I have no idea, but I think we're going to have fun figuring it out. And really, you do have to admit that this whole thing could turn into quite the interesting social experiment. You and I should take bets on how long it takes for Finn's reputation to plummet once word gets out that he's joined our lovable band of misfits."

That got a smile out of her. She gently jabbed his side with her elbow. "I love the way you think, Kurt Hummel. How I made it this long without you in my life, I'll never know."

"One of life's many mysteries, my dear Mercedes. Come on, I don't have to meet my dad today since we had practice this afternoon, so we should go out. Get some coffee or something."

"Are you buying?"

"I'm certainly offering."

"Then you got yourself a deal. Just let me get my stuff." She raced off toward the row of chairs where she'd left her things, and Kurt let his shoulders fall. He was right. They really did need Finn, regardless of his reasons for joining the club. And his presence certainly seemed to make Rachel happy.

Kurt looked over at the stage and pictured Finn standing there at the piano, looking just as dopey and nervous as he had when they'd been handed their music, and his heart gave a lurch. They had a jock in their group now, and it wasn't just any jock—it was Finn Hudson, one of the most popular underclassmen at the school. One of Kurt's tormentors. The guy Kurt was head over heels for. He really didn't know how to handle this.

Kurt swallowed and nervously turned back to his bag, trying desperately to get the image of Finn's smiling face out of his head.


	7. Chapter 7

Author's notes: Some of the dialogue in this and subsequent parts is taken directly from the show, so if it looks familiar it probably is. Also, I apologize for any inconsistencies with Ohio geography and the school schedule I've set up for McKinley here. I honestly can't tell from the show if glee is supposed to be a club, a class or both, so I went with both (seriously, there are practices and things that have to have happened after school and yet there are times when the kids leave after a bell rings, and I'm terribly, terribly confused). Also, I've brought this up several times in several places, but Glee geography is stupid and hard to figure out, and I've done my best to try and make things plausible. I'm not from Ohio (heck, I've never even been there), so I'm sorry if things are strange with that. Hopefully more soon.

* * *

Mr. Schuester swept into the room, his face lit up in a wide grin. "All right, guys, listen up. I've got a treat for you."

The group cast suspicious looks at one another, their faces all pulled into worried frowns. When a teacher came to them with a 'treat' or a 'surprise' it usually meant something along the lines of a pop quiz or a video about puberty. It was almost never something good, though what punishment veiled as a reward Mr. Schue had planned for them was a complete mystery. What bigger punishment could they already have outside of being a part of the glee club?

Schuester wasn't deterred in the slightest by the kids' silence. His bubbling enthusiasm never faded, and if anything, that made them more nervous. Well, not Rachel, but that wasn't exactly surprising, she was such a suck-up. With their luck, Schuester was probably going to tell them that he was adding some terrible song like 'Muskrat Love' to their repertoire and do them the honor of having them sing it in front of the whole school or something like that. They braced themselves.

Taking the prolonged silence as his cue to continue, Mr. Schuester sat down on the stool in the front, his smile growing ever wider on his face. "We are going on a field trip," he announced proudly to the group.

"A f-f-field trip?" Tina asked nervously from her seat.

Schuester nodded, his smile never faltering. "To Carmel High in Akron this Saturday."

"Why would we want to go all the way up there?"

"Well, the Carmel High School glee club, Vocal Adrenaline, is doing an invitational showcase. They are going to be _the _team to beat at sectionals this year. I thought it might be nice for us to go scope out the competition, see what we're up against. And—"

"Wait, wait, wait. Hold it." Mercedes had her hand out in front of her to stop Mr. Schue from continuing. "You lost me at 'Saturday.' Since when do we go on field trips over the _weekend_?"

"Well, the invitational is this Saturday…"

"And you expect us to go with you all the way to _Akron_ to hear some kids sing?"

"I think it will be good for you guys to get a taste of your competition. You need to know what you're up against, so you can be better prepared." He was far too excited about this.

"I'm game," said Artie, and all eyes turned to look at him. He blanched at their harsh stares but held his ground. "What? I think we should hear these Carmel kids sing. That way we know what kind of thing to expect."

"Artie's right," piped Rachel. "We can't win if we don't know our enemy."

Mr. Schue didn't seem to happy with that descriptor. "They're not exactly our enemies, guys."

"Close enough," muttered Kurt. "So, when is this thing?"

Mr. Schuester reached around to the piano where he'd set a thin stack of papers. He passed them around to each of the kids. "The showcase itself starts at noon, and because this is a school-sponsored trip you need to get these permission slips signed as soon as possible. We're meeting here, at the school parking lot, at eight thirty." A chorus of groans rose up from the group, and Schuester fought back a growl of exasperation. "I know it's kind of early for the weekend, guys, but I need you to be here on time so we can make it to the invitational. I want us there a little early so we have time to eat lunch before the performance starts, okay? Besides, on the way back, I'll talk to the bus driver about stopping somewhere, and I'll buy dinner for everybody, how does that sound?"

"Seriously?"

"Sure."

Excitement began to bubble up in the group once more, and Will felt himself relax a little. He should be able to cover a meal for five kids and himself if he could convince the bus driver to stop at some fast food joint on the way back. He hoped Terri wouldn't get too upset about that. He was already in hot water with her about the after school detention thing.

Tina's hand slowly rose into the air. "M-Mr. Schue?"

"Yes, Tina?"

"Um, w-what if we can't get our…parents to sign this?" It was the most he'd hear her say in a long while.

"Then I'm going to have to come up with a separate assignment for you to do."

As expected, protests began to crop up the second the words left his mouth, and this time Will couldn't help but roll his eyes.

"Aw, _hell_ no."

"Mr. Schuester, that really isn't fair."

"What if I have to work?"

"But I can't—"

"Enough!" They all fell completely silent. He'd never really yelled at them before. "In case you all forgot, this counts as both an after school activity and a _class_. That means that there are grades and assignments that I have to give you in order for you to get credit, and this is one of them. If you can't make it, that's fine. But you're going to have to write me an essay to make up for it, just like in any other class."

They fell silent, casting wary looks at one another. Will rose from his seat with a loud clap of his hands, startling them back to attention. "Okay. So let's get started. Line up. We need to go over the choreography again and see if we can clean up those steps."

* * *

Today sucked. Kurt looked up at the giant yellow school bus looming before him and shuddered. He'd sworn to himself that he'd never have to ride in one of these death traps again now that he had his own car, but of course fate had to screw with him. He looked to the side to see Schuester chatting animatedly with their other chaperone, the guidance counselor, Miss Pillsbury, and his frown deepened. Schuester was married and yet there he was, flirting unabashedly with the petite redhead who was most certainly _not _his wife. Pathetic.

He climbed up the steps into the bus and scanned the seats. Rachel was there, of course; she'd probably been the first one to arrive and probably at some ridiculous time too. Whatever. Her outfit was terribly impractical for the weather too. Typical.

Surprisingly enough, Finn was there as well. Rachel had latched onto him and was nattering on about something or other to the tall boy. He looked intensely uncomfortable and more than a little bored, but Kurt didn't care enough to rescue him. It was far too early for that. Tina was huddled into a seat somewhere in the middle, completely engrossed in her phone. She was probably waiting for Artie; those two were attached at the hip more often than not. His eyes swept over the inside of the bus one more time. Both Mercedes and Artie had yet to show up, though it was still a little early yet. Kurt shrugged his coat up higher on his shoulders and moved toward the back.

He settled onto the hard plastic-leather seat and cast a longing look out the window. The glass was slowly fogging up with his every breath, obscuring his view of the parking lot. It was too cold for this, and these buses had some of the crappiest heating systems imaginable. Well, actually these buses had just about the crappiest everything when he really thought about it. He scowled and laid his head against the frosty window. Three hours. He had three hours until he could get out of this death trap. Just wonderful.

The bus shuddered as another person climbed inside. Kurt didn't bother to look up. It was either Schuester or Mercedes, and judging from the harsh, pounding footsteps, it was his sassy friend. She collapsed into the seat across from him, and he turned his head to get a decent look at her. Her hat was pulled down low over her eyes, and her face was drawn into a tight scowl. She looked pissed.

"What's wrong with you?"

"What do you think?" she hissed.

He rolled his eyes and turned back to the window. He really wasn't in the mood to deal with anyone right now. "My, aren't we testy today."

"You're one to talk."

"Whatever." He closed his eyes and tried to pretend that he was anywhere but here.

"My whole Saturday is ruined. That is half of my weekend, gone!"

"I know," he mumbled, only paying half attention. "Mine is too, if you hadn't noticed."

She jammed her back roughly into the back of her seat, her arms crossed firmly over her chest. She cast another look at Kurt. "Do you think these Carmel kids are any good?"

"How would I know? It's not like I researched them or something." He opened his eyes and moved away from the window. The sparse moisture clinging to the glass had dampened his hair, and he frowned, moving it back into place before rubbing his forehead. A headache was starting to form behind his eyes. "Sorry if I'm testy this morning, Mercedes. It's too early for this, and these kids had better be good enough to make this stupid three hour drive worthwhile."

"Amen to that."

The bus was suddenly beeping and shuddering, the door for the wheelchair lift coming to life as the bus driver moved to the outside of the vehicle, probably to assist Artie with the lift. Kurt flopped back against his seat, his eyes trailing over the melted faces of lighters burned into the seat in front of him. "Hey Mercedes, do you have the time?"

She pulled back her sleeve and looked at her watch. "Eight twenty-six."

He bit back a groan. It was _way_ too early for this on a Saturday. The lift slowly rose up to the main portion of the bus, bringing Artie into view. The lift's alarm was still beeping loudly in the background. He closed his eyes and tried to block out everything around him. Three hours. He could survive that long.

* * *

Kurt was no expert on choir showcases, but there seemed to be quite a few people packed into Carmel High School for a Saturday afternoon. He glanced around curiously at the gathered audience and how nicely they were dressed as the members of New Directions shuffled into the auditorium to find their seats. They marched toward the front, where there were fewer occupied seats and a place for Artie's wheelchair. They slid into their seats, each of them clutching a program. According to the information printed on the back of it, the showcase was also serving as a partial fundraiser, and Carmel was collecting donations toward new costumes and music. Interesting.

Schuester called for their attention as the last of the people mingling outside settled into their seats. He gave them a little pep talk that Kurt only half listened to. At this point, he didn't really care how good these Carmel kids were supposed to be; he'd suffered three hours on a rickety school bus to get to this stupid thing, and he was really too tired to care much about anything at this point.

The lights began to dim, and Schuester quieted, turning his attention to the front. Mercedes shot Kurt a quick smile and leaned in close to his shoulder. "If these guys sound anything like how I think they will, we've got this in the bag."

Kurt smiled back. "Of course they can't beat us in competition. They don't have you on their team."

She let out a breathy giggle. "You sure know the way to a girl's heart, Kurt Hummel."

"Flattery will get you everywhere."

The spotlight lit up a single figure on the side of the stage, and he introduced the group. "And now, let's give a big Buckeye State welcome to last year's regional champions: Vocal Adrenaline!" And he was gone, lost in the sudden rush of darkness.

The curtain rose to reveal a cluster of students stop a set of bleachers. The lights were too low to see any of their faces or to make out their outfits properly, but their sound was certainly impressive. Then the lights came on in full, and they swept across the stage in a flash of blue and black, their voices rising in a spirited, choral rendition of Amy Winehouse's 'Rehab."

Kurt's heart stilled, his eyes going wide as the energetic group flew back and forth across the stage with flips and jumps and dance moves New Directions could never pull off, even if they had (good lord, were there really that many of them?) thirty members. He sank back into his seat as the music swelled, clutching his program tight to his chest. This was not good. Not good at all. But maybe he was just seeing things. Maybe he was just tired, and Vocal Adrenaline wasn't really as good as he thought.

As the last chord cut short and the choir went still, the audience erupted in applause. All around them people were standing and cheering at the top of their lungs. This was worse than he'd thought. Even Mr. Schuester was speechless.

"We're d-d-d-doomed."

* * *

Things only went downhill from there. Mr. Schue's little motivational trip had had exactly the opposite effect he'd been hoping for—instead of rising up from their pond scum status as the ultimate underdogs of both the show choir world and the social ladder of William McKinley High to become champions and magically keep the club alive, they began to fall apart.

In hindsight, it had been a completely hopeless endeavor from the start; seeing Vocal Adrenaline perform had only solidified that, made it real, and frankly, Kurt could hardly bring himself to care. To keep the club alive, they had to win their regional competition. To win at regionals, they had to beat Vocal Adrenaline. To beat Vocal Adrenaline, they needed a miracle. And perhaps some heavy artillery. It was completely hopeless and not really worth his time. Kurt had much bigger problems to deal with than the sinking ship that was William McKinley's New Directions.

Finn's little secret had been discovered.

Kurt wasn't exactly sure how it had gotten out that the quarterback had joined the glee club, but apparently he'd been cornered Tuesday afternoon and paintballed by his teammates on the football team. The news was all over the school by Wednesday.

Kurt's heart leapt into his throat the second he saw Finn's sullen face in math class. The bullying of the glee club had gotten to one of the most popular kids in school. Nowhere was safe for him anymore because he was a gay kid in a gay club who'd been gaying up the leader of the football team in some sort of secret plot to spread the gay to the entire school, and oh god, he was going to die, wasn't he?

Kurt caught fragments of the whispered gossip about Finn's new affinity for musical theater in the hallways, and he tried to be as inconspicuous as possible, keeping close to walls when he walked to his classes, avoiding the cafeteria at lunch in favor of the boy's bathroom on the second floor, making sure to avoid eye contact with anyone in the halls, little things like that. When the last bell rang, he bolted from his classroom, fully intent on getting to the auditorium before anyone could catch up to him.

Of course, he should have known that things could get worse. Mr. Schuester was running later than usual, and when he finally wandered in, the look on his face did nothing to help brighten the mood. Today had been full of nothing but bad news; why should he have expected any different when he got to glee club for the afternoon?

"Okay, guys. I have some bad news." He paused and sucked in a deep breath. This was it. It was official. New Directions was finished. "I'm sorry I didn't let you guys know sooner, but I didn't really have the chance. I'm not going to be able to head the glee club anymore."

"Wait, you're leaving us?"

Mr. Schue nodded somberly. "I've given my two weeks notice." Kurt was confused at that little tidbit of information. He'd simply thought Schuester had given up on the glee club, not his job entirely. Something else was behind this, but it was too late to bother trying to figure it out. Schuester was leaving and that was that. "But I promise I'm going to find you guys a great replacement before I go. Glee club isn't going to die with me."

"Is this because those Carmel kids were so good? Because we can work harder." Mercedes sounded hurt, and rightfully so. She'd been in the glee club under Mr. Ryerson. Show choir was really important to her—Kurt knew that, and it hurt a bit to hear her sounding so lost., but he kept his mouth shut. There really wasn't anything to say.

"This isn't fair, Mr. Schuester. We can't do this without you."

Finn chose that moment to speak. "So…does that mean that I don't have to be in the club anymore? Or…" They all silenced him with a hard look. So they'd been right all along: Finn hadn't joined the club of his own volition. Not that it mattered anymore. Schuester was abandoning them, and they had the looming giant of Vocal Adrenaline to compete against. They were well and truly screwed.

"This isn't about you guys. Being an adult is about making difficult choices. Sometimes you have to give up the things you love. One day you guys are going to grow up and understand that." The man before them looked torn, like he was trying to convince himself to believe his words just as much as he was trying to convince them. "I have loved being your teacher," he said with conviction, his voice breaking a little with barely contained emotion. Silence settled over them for a moment, hanging in the air between them like a shroud, before Mr. Schue turned his back on them and walked away.

The sound of the auditorium door banging shut resonated loudly in the empty space. They stood there in silence, none of them quite sure what to do.

"So…is, um, is practice over then?" Finn murmured from his spot near the back. "Because I have to go…home. Now."

"Just go, Finn." He didn't need to be told twice. Finn gathered up his bag and bolted, leaving the remaining five to the stillness of the auditorium. Kurt leaned back against the hard back of the seat behind him; Rachel crossed her arms tightly across her chest and lowered her head in thought.

"S-so what are we going to do? We can't have a c-club with-without a director."

"Mr. Schue said he'd find us a replacement."

"He's also leaving us," Kurt pointed out. "He's knows we're no match for a group like Vocal Adrenaline." Silence consumed them once more as that point sunk in. Even Mr. Schuester, the insufferable optimist, had given up on them after seeing how awesome their competition was.

"We're not," said Rachel quietly and all eyes turned to her. It wasn't like Rachel to admit defeat. She brightened and lifted her face to them, her expression showing that she was more determined than ever. "We're not good enough to beat Vocal Adrenaline. But we could be."

"How? We're not even a club without a director, and if a teacher doesn't pick this up, then we're not going to get credit for it either. We'll just be some kids using our study period to sing and dance in the choir room, and my reputation at this school is bad enough without that, thanks." Artie pushed his glasses up a little higher on the bridge of his nose as he fixed Rachel with a resigned look.

"But don't you see? We're still here. We're still together, and we still want to sing, right?" The five of them all gingerly nodded their heads, not really sure where she was going with this. "And now that we have Finn, we can do a greater range of songs. Come on, you guys, let's look at the positive of the situation."

"There's something positive about our director leaving us after we get the chance to see what sort of thing we're up against? I fail to see your point."

Rachel simply rolled her eyes and did her best to hide her frustration. "My point is that Mr. Schue was right. Glee club shouldn't have to die with him."

"But we can't have a club without a sponsor."

Rachel faltered a little, her reasoning not quite sharp enough to pick up on that point just yet. She wished, and not for the first time, that Brad worked exclusively for the school. He would certainly sponsor the club, but he was just their accompanist. A damn good one and always around whenever you needed him, but nothing more. Besides, he could only keep the club aspect of glee alive. Their credit was as good as gone unless they got a bonafide instructor for the class, and that was going to be like finding a needle in a haystack. There were a few other musically-inclined teachers at the school, including the band director (though he was the most likely to turn them down if they asked him to take over due to his already overtaxed schedule), and approaching any one of them was going to be hit or miss. They were running out of options.

"That's it, then," Rachel said with a determined nod, placing her hands firmly on her hips.

Artie scanned over the rest of the group to find their confused expressions matching his own. He cleared his throat, capturing Rachel's attention. "Sorry, but what's it?"

"I'm just going to have to take over glee until we can find a suitable replacement."

* * *

Kurt stumbled through the empty halls in a daze toward his locker. So, they were facing a daunting opponent that they could never hope to defeat, Mr. Schuester had given up on them (and teaching in general it seemed) and now Rachel was pushing her will onto what was left of the club. Finn was probably going to abandon them too, since it was fairly obvious now that Schuester had had something on him to get him to join and stay.

The whole thing was tiring, and really, he wasn't even sure why he was still putting up with this.

He stopped in front of the familiar tan casing of his locker, still faintly surprised that this one had yet to be vandalized this year. He traced his finger over the smooth metal until they hit the depression where his lock resided. He began to twist in his combination but stopped halfway through, realizing that he was putting in the wrong numbers.

He leaned forward until his forehead was flush against his locker. His bag sloughed from his drooping shoulder to land with a soft thump on the floor. Stupid. This whole thing was so very, very stupid, and he was letting it get to him.

He closed his eyes and sucked in a deep breath, trying to concentrate and picture the numbers in his head. He needed to get his chemistry textbook or he'd never get his homework done tonight. Stupid fucking chemistry. Stupid fucking science classes. They were by far his weakest subjects, and Kurt couldn't wait until he didn't need them anymore.

He pulled back and twisted in a new set of numbers, one that felt right this time, and he was rewarded with the give of the latch and the gentle swing of the locker swinging open. He needed to get home, maybe make some tea or something to calm his nerves. He peered inside, trying to remember which color book cover he'd assigned to chemistry, and his heart stopped.

There was a note. Plain white paper folded in the same neat square as before. Exactly the same. So they did know which locker was his—it simply wasn't worth flaunting anymore.

He reached inside and grabbed it, his fingers trembling. This wasn't happening. Not again. Not now. He really didn't need this right now. He unfolded the edges and swore harshly under his breath as something sharp flew past his fingers to land with a tiny clatter on the floor. The metal of a razor flashed in the corner of his eye, reflecting the harsh fluorescent lights of the hall. Stupid. He'd forgotten to check this time.

He turned his attention back to the note in his hand. One of the edges had a tiny red stain of blood from a cut on his finger.

_We're watching you, fag. Stay away from the football team._

Kurt stared at the crude writing for a beat before carefully re-folding the paper. He bent down and retrieved his bag and the razor from the floor, stuffing the note into the small pocket on the front.

_It's funny_, he mused as he pulled his textbook from his locker and headed toward the front door, his movements slow and heavy as though he were trudging through a fog. _I didn't think any of the jocks knew where a comma was supposed to go._


	8. Chapter 8

Okay. That was it. Mercedes's patience had finally reached its end. She slapped the pages in her hand down onto the floor with a loud smack. "Rachel, this song is terrible! You can't seriously expect us to sing this."

Rachel folded her arms and glared down at Mercedes from her spot near the piano. "What's wrong with it? It's a perfectly good song to get us back in sync after all the drama of last week."

Artie pushed his glasses a little higher up the bridge of his nose as he settled his gaze on Rachel. "But if you look at the music, it really doesn't really work as a group song. You do realize this, right? I mean, I don't even come in until the third page." He flipped through the papers and pointed at the measure where he was supposed to come in on.

"That's because we have to choose songs with fewer male parts, since our lower register is lacking." Artie and Kurt shot her dirty looks.

"Speaking of guys," Mercedes frowned and looked around the room, as though Finn was waiting to pop out from behind one of the brown plastic chairs lined up across the wall, "where's Finn? I haven't seen him around here at all this week. I mean, I saw him in the hall the other day, but—"

"Does it really matter?" Kurt cut her off. "We all knew he didn't want to be here anyway. It was obvious Schuester was blackmailing him somehow to get him to stick around. Now that he's gone, Finn doesn't have to be tethered to us losers anymore."

He sighed and rubbed his forehead. "But Artie does have a point, you know." He was tired of this, all of this, and he knew his tone was giving him away, belying his frustration and boredom, but he was finding it very hard to care at this point. He looked back up at Rachel. "Even with us down a member, every song you've chosen since Shuester abandoned us has been essentially nothing but solo work for you. We might have been terrible under Mr. Schue, but at least he gave other people the chance to sing something besides 'ooh' and 'aah' all the time." He scowled down at the music in his hand. "And if all we are going to be doing is glorified backup, then at least give us some decent harmony."

Rachel's face darkened, and she turned sharply to Tina, who shrunk down under her cold glare. "How about you? Don't you have something to add about my terrible song choices, too?"

"I-I-"

"Rrrgh! Never mind!" Rachel threw up her hands in exasperation. "Then what kind of songs do you suggest we do?"

Mercedes raised an eyebrow in suspicion. "You're seriously going to listen to anything we have to say?"

"As the new team leader, it is my duty to—"

"Yeah, yeah, whatever. How about something R&B? Or maybe hip hop."

"I could get behind that," Artie supplied enthusiastically.

Kurt frowned but said nothing. Neither of those genres would be his first choice for music for them to do—he would much prefer they stick to show tunes, Broadway classics and the like—but if yelling rhythmically into a microphone made the rest of the group happy, then he'd deal with it.

"And how would those be any different than what I've chosen?"

"Because they don't suck?"

Rachel rolled her eyes. "We're not doing rap. Not yet, anyway. We need to figure out how to properly harmonize first. How about Stevie Wonder? I think one of my dads has a book of music by him arranged for the piano lying around somewhere. His music is light enough that it's relatable, and we can come up with some interesting harmony from the piano chords. Is that reasonable?"

Artie shrugged, and the other kids nodded in agreement. "Sounds like a plan to me."

"Good." She sighed and gathered up her things. "Then we'll meet here again tomorrow after classes let out. I'll see you all then."

* * *

"Hey, dad."

Kurt pressed his head down harder against his shoulder, trying to keep his cell phone in from falling out of the crook of his neck as he elbowed the door to the refrigerator shut. The milk sloshed within the carton as he made his way to the counter.

"No, no. Everything's fine. Really. I just wanted to call and let you know I made it home okay."

The neighbor's dog was barking again. Kurt glared at the screen door, wishing they'd just shut the thing up indoors for the evening. He'd been terrified of the thing when he was younger, but now the old mutt was little more than a nuisance.

"What time are you planning on getting home tonight?"

He shifted the phone to his other ear and leaned up against the counter, stretching out the kinks that had formed in his neck from holding the phone up with his shoulder. He could feel the cold of the floor seeping into his feet through his socks. He really should have left his shoes on today.

"Yeah, I could probably do up something like that. It's simple enough."

The trill of the landline suddenly rang out across the kitchen, causing Kurt to jump a little in surprise. He turned to look at the phone resting innocently on its stand.

"Hey, listen, dad, I've got to go. The landline is ringing." He nodded at his dad's words and made his way over to the other side of the room to look at the caller ID. Unknown number. Damn. Probably a solicitor. "Yeah, I'll have it ready when you get home. Talk to you then." He pressed the little red button to end the call and stared for a moment at the landline phone, his mind racing back to the summer, to the threatening anonymous call. He was so afraid that this would be a repeat of that, and his heart rate quickened at the thought. He could pick up. It was probably a solicitor, someone looking to offer him discounted oil changes or refinancing on the mortgage. Nothing of importance. He could always leave it alone, let it ring until whomever was on the other end was forced to hang up or leave a message. But then he'd be forced to listen to it anyway when he deleted the message. Best to just get this over with.

It was probably nothing.

His hand hovered over the phone for a split second longer before he reached out and grabbed it, connecting the call. "Hello?"

Nothing.

"Hello? Hummel residence." His heart was racing now, blood rushing to his face with a sudden, almost unbearable heat. This wasn't real; it couldn't be happening again.

The quiet sound of an old woman's voice flowed into his ear. "Hello. I'm with the Children's Foundation of Allan County. We're doing a collection in your area on the twenty-fifth. Do you have any used items or clothing you would like to donate?"

He nearly fell to his knees in relief; his hands gripped the edge of the counter so tightly that the skin had gone white from the pressure. His heart was still pounding in his ears, almost drowning out the woman's voice. "No," he replied shakily, hoping that his sudden rush of emotion wasn't showing in his voice. "No, we don't."

"All right. Thank you for your time."

"You're welcome." And she was gone. Kurt ended the call and stood there, still gripping the counter like his life depended on it. What was wrong with him? It had only been one call all the way back in June. One phone call and some paint on the side of the house, nothing more. He was being stupid and blowing this way out of proportion. It was nothing.

He placed the phone back on its charger and walked back over to the milk he'd left near the fridge. The heater rumbled softly in the background; the dog had stopped barking outside. He was being stupid. It was one little phone call. There were sure to be others like it. He just needed to keep up his guard and make sure his dad never knew about them. It was the least he could do.

* * *

It never ceased to amaze him how dedicated the athletes of McKinley High were to their failing sports program. They were the worst in most every athletic category imaginable (if one didn't count cheerleading, wrestling and track) and yet they refused to give up. Kurt was sure he would have given up long ago.

It was unseasonably cold—at the very least too cold for football practice outside—and yet there they were, practicing out on the field like it was a perfectly nice day. The Cheerios were a given; Ms. Sylvester was always out here, yelling at the red-and-white-covered royalty of the school, but the football team was unexpected. Kurt would have thought Coach Tanaka to chicken out and hold practice in the gym today, making the guys do weight lifting and running indoors, since his choice in pants never appeared to extend below the knee. But the large coach was out there too, zipping alongside the players running around the track. Their dedication was impressive. Stupid and wasted effort on a lost cause, but impressive nonetheless. Kind of like the last dying gasps of the glee club, if he thought about it. He often wondered why he still bothered with the damn club when no one but the five of them were willing to save it. Maybe stubbornness was a common trait among the McKinley High population.

Kurt sighed and laid his chin down on his hand, ignoring the grind of his elbow into his knee with the newly added weight. His breath plumed out in front of him like smoke, and he wondered just how long this practice was actually going to last, or if it was even practice at all. Maybe their being outside today was some sort of punishment. His eyes trailed after Puckerman for a moment as he jogged by. Actually, this being a punishment wouldn't surprise him in the slightest.

The cold of the metal bleachers was seeping into his legs through his pant. He needed to leave soon, get home. He'd ditched glee practice today for this, and his dad would be expecting him home soon. It wasn't like they were getting anything done during the glee practices anyway. Everyone kept butting heads, and Rachel was one of the most ineffective leaders imaginable. She wouldn't take anyone else taking the reigns, though, so stepping up didn't matter. They were hopeless. There was no chance the club was going to survive. Not since Mr. Schue's big announcement, not since Finn had quit the club.

His eyes tracked over to the tall teen. He certainly wasn't the fastest member of the team, but he looked to be holding his own rather nicely. Kurt supposed that was to be expected: he _was_ some sort of team captain, right? The quarterback or something like that. Kurt really didn't know anything about this stupid, confusing sport.

Finn had stopped showing up to glee practices, and moral was low. Very, very low. It wasn't as though he was that much better than the rest of them, but having another male voice and someone cute for Rachel to ogle and keep her happy really did help boost their sound. He sighed again and the white cloud of his breath obscured his vision for just a second, blurring his view of the field. This was pathetic, watching Finn like this, especially after how badly the other boy had screwed glee up for the rest of them, but he couldn't help himself.

Finn wasn't the most attractive guy at school physically, but there was just something about him that drew Kurt to him again and again, like a moth to a flame. Maybe it was the harmlessness of it all—barring some sort of miracle, Finn could never love him back, no matter how actively Kurt pursued him, and that made him a perfectly good crush. He was also nicer to him than most of the other kids. Kurt frowned briefly at the memory of this morning's dumpster toss. Finn hadn't been able to even look him in the eye, let alone deign to keep his bag from getting flung in there with him. Okay, so he'd kind of been a jerk then and when they'd pelted him with pee balloons, and nailed the lawn furniture to the roof and…Finn was nice enough. In his own way. Better than Puckerman, at any rate.

A tiny dot of moisture hitting his cheek brought him out of his reverie. It had started to snow. Just barely, but something was definitely falling from the sky. Kurt huffed out another breath and gave the football field one last look. Finn and the others were still running, running, running. He wondered when they'd finally go inside.

He bent down and gathered his bag from where it lay at his feet. Tiny flakes of snow were flying past his face now, almost like static on an old television set. It was cold. It was getting late, and he'd wasted enough time as it was. He needed to get home.

* * *

"No, no, no! Stop! What on earth are you guys doing?" Rachel's voice was climbing higher and higher as rehearsal dragged on, and everyone's patience had long since worn thin."

"D-dancing?" supplied Tina. She'd been more in time than either Kurt or Mercedes, but none of them could really keep up with Rachel's odd instructions thus far.

"But those are _not_ the steps I told you to do. Look, it's not hard. Just follow my lead." She started counting loudly to keep the time as she flounced across the stage. She spun around on the ball of her foot and then turned to face them. "See? It's not that hard."

"Speak for yourself," Mercedes muttered under her breath. She looked around the auditorium, her face bunching up into a frown. "Hey guys, has anyone seen Artie?"

"No, but I know he was here today. I saw him in bio."

Tina shrugged and shook her head. She had no idea where the other boy had gone. "M-maybe his dad…p-picked him up early today."

"But why would he skip glee club?"

Kurt rolled his eyes. "Why do you think?"

Rachel came stomping over to the group. "What are earth are you guys talking about?"

"Artie. And the fact that he hasn't shown up to practice yet."

Rachel rolled her eyes. "We can rehearse without him. We need to get these steps down, and with the way you guys were going earlier, we need all the time we can get."

"Thanks for your vote of confidence, Rachel," Kurt snapped back. Yeah, he was kind of a crap dancer, but Rachel had already managed to get under his skin today, and he was done with this. "And I have no idea what the heck you just did out there." He waved his hand out toward the stage. "In case you hadn't noticed, your teaching skills are rather lacking."

She scowled at him before turning her attention to the whole group. "I know that not having Artie today is a distraction, but we _need_ to have the choreography down for this song. We can't move on to other things until we do."

Mercedes placed her hands indignantly on her hips. "And what if we don't think we can do whatever the heck it was you just did?"

"Then pay better attention." She let out an exasperated sigh. "All right, I'm going to do it again, slower this time, and then you guys try." She stepped back into place and went through the motions again. Kurt was just as lost as ever. "Okay, Tina, you first."

They each went, one after the other, trying their best to copy Rachel's steps. Tina came the closest, but Rachel wasn't satisfied. After the third full round of failed attempts, her patience was at its end.

"Rachel, we are _not_ doing this," Mercedes huffed. "It's too difficult. I have no idea what you want us to do."

Rachel let out an exasperated huff of air, and Kurt could have sworn she was going to storm off again, but no, she instead decided to stick around and admonish them for their failure to follow her particular brand of leadership. "You guys, these steps are not hard. I've been doing them since _preschool_."

Kurt had really had enough of this. He cocked his hip out to the side and fixed her with a hard look. "I'm sorry, did I miss the election for queen? Because I didn't vote for you."

Rachel scoffed, and her face began to grow red with repressed rage. "_I_ know what I'm talking about. I won my first dance competition when I was three months old!"

Kurt could see the tiny colored lights on the front wheels of Artie's wheelchair blinking in the darkness backstage behind Rachel. Suddenly the bespectacled boy was there, followed by one Finn Hudson in what looked like his clothes from football practice, pushing Artie along like it was the most natural thing in the world. Of course _now_ would be the time Finn decided to show his face again. Things had fallen apart enough without him around, and now he could boast about how fractured their little band of misfits was without someone popular to back them up. Kurt's expression darkened as Finn's casual, almost apologetic air. They didn't need him gloating on how much they sucked without the wayward jock.

"This is a closed rehearsal," he sneered. His eyes narrowed in suspicion. Finn had already abandoned them once. They didn't need him to do it again.

"Look, I owe you guys an apology. I never should have quit." He looked as though he needed to pace to ease off some of the tension that had built up inside him but couldn't get his legs to work right. "I don't want to be the guy who just drives around throwing eggs at people," he admitted in a sudden rush of words.

"That was you?"

"You and your friends threw pee balloons at me," Kurt spat. If Finn really was going to apologize, he might as well make it count.

"I know."

"You nailed all my lawn furniture to my roof." _And nearly gave my dad a heart attack when he realized I'd been lying to him about the bullying._

"I wasn't actually there for that, but I'm really sorry. Look, that isn't who I am, and I'm tired of it." They all took pause at that. Finn really wasn't all that good of a liar—heck, his cover stories for missing homework assignments usually involved break-ins and covert military operations—his face was an open book of emotion. "_This_ is what I want to be doing. With you guys." They all shared wary glances with one another. Artie nodded silently at Tina, who softened at the motion. Rachel's resolve was melting.

Finn just kept going, almost completely oblivious to the reactions of the group in front of him. "I used to think that this was, like, the lamest thing on earth, and maybe it is, but we're all here for the same reason: because we want to be good at something." And it was the truth, wasn't it? Schuester had seen something in them, at least for a little while, and there was potential all throughout their group that would have never been realized without something like this stupid, failing club. And if they were going down anyway, why not have fun while they were at it?

"Artie, you play the guitar, right? Do you think you could recruit the jazz band?"

Artie nodded and pushed his glasses up the bridge of his nose. Kurt noticed that he had the habit of doing that when he wasn't sure of what he was about to say. "I do have pull there."

Finn seemed to grow even more excited. He turned to Mercedes. "Mercedes. We need new costumes, and they have got to be cool. Do you think you can do that?"

Mercedes smirked and gestured at her outfit. "Damn, don't you see what I've got on?" Kurt cast her a disparaging look but said nothing. Mercedes definitely had an eye for color, but sometimes her taste left something to be desired. He did have to admit, however, that he liked this new, forceful, leadership side of Finn. He watched the other boy's face as he told Rachel she was in charge of choreography, and his chest seized up when the tall boy turned to his left towards him. Finn was going to give him his assignment. He was going to look Kurt directly in the eye and—

"Tina. What are you good at?" Oh.

"I—uh—" She was choking on her words, but Finn simply nodded, his face still split in a wide, disarming smile.

"We'll figure something out for you."

Kurt opened his mouth to ask what he was supposed to do, but Mercedes beat him to it. "And, uh, what are you bringing to the table, Justin Timberlake?"

Finn's smile never faltered, his teeth bright against the skin of his face, and Kurt nearly forgot his irritation at being left out. God, but Finn had a nice smile.

"I've got the music."

* * *

Thursday. No glee rehearsal today. Kurt quickly snapped his locker shut and shouldered his bag. He needed to find Mercedes, and he needed to find her _now_.

He ran for the main entrance, hoping to catch her before her dad came to pick her up. His breathing was heavy as he pushed his way through the double doors, but she was still there, seated on one of the benches beside the walk. There was a large, open book resting in her lap—homework, probably.

"Hey, Mercedes." She didn't look up. Crap. She probably had headphones in.

He jogged over to where she sat and sidled up behind the girl to peer over her shoulder. Homework. He'd been right. He lightly placed his hand on her shoulder, and she jumped a little in surprise. She drew in a sharp intake of breath as she turned around, but she deflated once she saw his face.

"Oh my god, Kurt," she exhaled as she pulled out her earbuds. "You scared me." She scooted over to the side and patted the empty expanse of bench beside her. "What's up, boy?"

He gently set himself down, placing his bag on his lap. "I wanted to talk to you about the costumes."

"Right." She nodded and closed the book in her lap. "So what did you want to know?"

"You wanted jeans, black Converse and a red shirt, right?"

"Yup. But it's got to be that really bright red that I showed you guys yesterday."

"So we can have any style we want, as long as it fits those parameters." He winced a little at the thought of Artie's suspenders, Tina's odd belts and chains, Rachel's…everything. At least the requirement of jeans meant that the petite girl wouldn't show up for their dress rehearsal tomorrow looking like she'd just raided a retirement home.

She nodded again, shooting him a harsh stare that went right through to the core. "Yeah. Is there something wrong with that?"

"No. It's fine." This wasn't worth fighting over. So the costumes wouldn't really be much of costumes or uniforms, but rather an assortment of outfits that sort of matched. Whatever. They weren't ever going to make it to any competitions anyway, so it shouldn't matter that they looked unprofessional or less put-together than any other group. They'd never be seeing any other groups. He sighed and slumped a little over his bag. "Do you think this thing, Finn's whole plan, is going to work, or even come together at all?"

Mercedes leveled her gaze out over the parking lot. A red car pulled up to the curb and a pair of girls ran up to climb inside, their backpacks swinging along behind them. She turned back to him, a light smile gracing her face. "I don't know. But I think it's definitely worth a shot. We sounded pretty good in practice yesterday, don't you think?"

He smiled back and leaned playfully into her side. "I think you're right. What have we got to lose?"

* * *

Dress rehearsal. For a performance they'd never have in front of an audience they'd never see.

And Kurt had never felt so good in his entire life.

They sounded good. Really good. Not perfect or as polished as they could be, but good. And the music was surprisingly fun to sing, even if his part was only backup. The choreography was simple, but it worked (and thankfully, there was absolutely no lifting involved). Rachel and Finn worked oddly well at the forefront, the large difference in their heights drawing attention to them almost as much as their blending voices on the lead vocals.

As the last chord faded out and they dropped their heads at the close, the sound of clapping rang out through the auditorium. It was only one person, but they hadn't expected any audience of any sort, let alone a receptive one. They raised their heads one by one to see who it was.

Mr. Schuester was walking down the center aisle of the auditorium, his face lit up in a smile. It was strange seeing him. This was his last day at the school, and they'd all assumed that he would avoid the glee club like the plague. Everyone else did.

"Good guys. It's a nine. We need a ten. Rachel, you need to hit the ones and the fives. Finn, I think if you worked on it, you could hit a high B."

They couldn't believe their ears. Why would he be giving them advice on their performance? Unless…

"So does this mean you're staying?"

"It would kill me to see you win nationals without me."


End file.
